You'd Be So Nice (To Come Home To)
by Wordsplat
Summary: An AU based off the Marvel Noir comics. Steve is a stripper, Tony is the Stark Adventures poster boy, and they fall madly in love in the 1940's. Steve/Tony.
1. Chapter 1

To be perfectly honest, Steve wasn't sure how he'd ended up here.

He'd signed up to fight a war. Signed up to be a soldier, a man's man, to stand up to bullies around the world and fight for what was right. He'd wanted to fight, wanted to win. He'd thought the supersoldier serum would be the solution to his every problem; he'd thought he'd be a soldier at last, or he'd die trying.

This had never been part of the plan.

The emotions swirled and rolled around in his gut like he was on the Coney Island Cyclone all over again, sixteen and scrawny and about to puke. He was furious at his situation, and so preoccupied being righteously indignant about the unfairness of it all that he didn't focus much—at all, really—on his motions.

"Cripes, Rogers, you're stiff as a board! Hips back, breasts out, c'mon."

Steve's first thought was to remind the man—Jack, the owner of the club he was auditioning for—that he wasn't actually a woman, that he clearly didn't have breasts. His second was that if he did, he certainly wouldn't be sticking them out anyway, not for Jack, and not for the clients that Steve had been assured would "just eat him up with a spoon".

As if that was supposed to be a good thing.

Steve resigned himself to silence, to the fact that if he wanted to get out of this situation anytime soon, he'd have to make money. To do that, he'd have to get a job. To get this job, he'd have to look good. The club may have been sleazy and it's owner even worse, but the man knew what appealed to his patrons. Steve did the dance again.

"Christ, kid, you look like you'd rather shoot me."

He'd rather be shooting something, that was for sure.

"Look, try a smile or somethin', wouldja? I'm not believin' for a second that you wanna fuck me." Jack chewed on a cigarette as he spoke, rolling it along the ridges of his teeth, chewing it like gum without bothering to light it.

"You said sex wasn't—" Steve began, alarmed.

"Cool yer heels, no one's asking ya to fuck anyone. But ya gotta make 'em _believe _you do, that's the whole shtick. If you can't do that, no matter how great a body ya got you're fucking useless to me."

Steve froze, the word _useless_ ringing like a gunshot in his ears. When he'd been released, the military had taken every penny he had—not that he'd had much to begin with. The supersoldier serum, in spite of the many muscles it had gifted Steve with, wasn't replicable without Erskine, and therefore wasn't viable. As a result, the whole SSR program had been decommissioned and considered a failure, and a damn expensive one at that. The military considered Steve to be at fault somehow, and had taken everything he'd ever made and then some for their trouble.

Steve, jobless, inexperienced, and deemed militarily unfit once again—they claimed to be unsure how Erskine's serum had affected his brain, though Steve suspected they just wanted him out of their hair—had no way of getting another job. His year in the military was now classified, and there was nothing he could put on a resume to explain the empty year. To anyone hiring, he looked like a lay-about who'd wasted a year of his life doing nothing in the middle of a depression.

Steve was trying everything he could, scouring every want ad and hitting up every business, but no one was hiring and if they were he wasn't qualified. He wasn't unaware of his new physicality, though—he was attractive now, tall, muscular, and dexterous in ways he hadn't previously thought possible—and knew there were certain jobs where athleticism and physical appeal were all that mattered. He was loathe to stoop to it, but desperate, about two weeks from being homeless, and exceptionally hungry—the superserum had done a hard number on his metabolism—he'd given in and starting seeking out jobs at some of the new clubs popping up over New York infamous for their hush-hush allowance of all types of…interests.

Steve hadn't liked the thought of that. He'd spent a long time hiding his tendencies for impure, queer thoughts, and it felt like playing with fire working someplace like that. But a man could make a hell of a lot of money working in these new places, and Steve wasn't in a position to turn that sort of cash down. Sex with clients was optional in most places though it paid an exorbitant amount of money, but Steve thought he could scrounge by without it—at least, he was damn well going to try.

So he steeled himself, fiercely determined as he cocked his hips back, jutted his chest out, and shot Jack his most dazzling smile. He decided then and there that if he was going to strut around this ridiculous stage like a peacock in too-tight corsets and stringy, see-through thongs in as many combinations of red white and blue as the horny bastards in costume design could have wet dreams of, he was going to look good doing it, damn it.

After the tryouts, one of the men Steve had caught watching him from the wings approached him. He was dressed in the simple, well-pressed suit of a businessman, and Steve wondered what he was doing in sleazy place like this. He remembered his gaze though, steady, fixed without being leering, and decided that he liked him better than Jack already.

"Phil Coulson." The man passed him a business card. "Talent manager for Club Shield."

"Steve Rogers." Steve took the card, glanced over the name, phone number, and address. Club Shield was in a different district—hell of a nicer one, too.

"We know." Phil managed to inflect a smile into his voice without actually moving his lips. "We're interested. You're new, clearly, but you're fairly good and we're not opposed to training those we think have the aptitude for it."

"You'd train me?" All the other places Steve had auditioned at had made it clear he'd start the next week, and that it was up to him to figure out some kind of routine in the meantime.

"Among other things. We demand more of you—the rehearsal schedules are fairly intense, and we maintain full control over all your costumes and routines, who you work with on-stage, things like that—but in return, we take care of our own. That means we'd train you, watch out for you, make sure you're getting as much or as little work as you need." Phil glanced around, a slight air of disapproval more in his eyes than his expression as he took in the grungy club. "We're safe, we're clean, and we're exclusive—our clients aren't the type to take liberties you haven't signed off on. Consider it, Mr. Rogers. I think you'd be a good fit for our team."

Steve wondered if he'd look too eager if he said yes immediately.

"If I decide to accept…" Steve forced himself to look hesitant. "Is there another audition I need to schedule, or can I start immediately?"

"You can start whenever you'd like." Amusement was visible in the corners of Phil's eyes, and Steve figured the game was up.

"Right." Steve glanced down at the card, then back up at Phil. "Tomorrow?"

"Certainly." Phil nodded, thankfully making no comment on Steve's eagerness. The sooner he got a job, the sooner he could have a hot meal; he couldn't afford to play it coy. "We like it if our employees live in the building. Keeps you close, and we can control your rent and spot you as necessary; not to mention the team-building it fosters vastly increases our retention rate. Is that a problem for you?"

"No. I can—whenever," Steve answered quickly. He didn't have much to begin with, and he'd been selling anything he didn't need these past few weeks as he became increasingly desperate for money. All he had was a few trinkets and a handful of books he couldn't bear to part with; the landlord would've already kicked him out months ago if she didn't have a soft spot for him.

"Good. Come by the club tonight to see for yourself what we're like, and I'll let Nick—the owner—know you'll be stopping by. He'll want to meet and get to know you, so make sure you talk to him."

"Wait, get to know me? Why?"

Phil paused a moment, cocked his head.

"Listen, Steve: this is a fickle business. Dancers come and go in the blink of an eye—plenty of them just want a quick buck, next month's rent so they can get back on their feet. That's fine, no one wants this job forever, we get that. But we're not aiming for the revolving door, either. We want people who are comfortable sticking around for a while. Plenty of clubs offer dime-a-dozen teenage runaways working the pole for week here, a month there. They get replaced, no one notices. We want our dancers to be unique, recognized, desired—those are the kinds of dancers who bring in repeat clientele, who take the business up a notch. So we want to understand what you're looking for from us before we bring you in."

"Right." Steve nodded quickly. "Okay. Sure. Yes."

"Glad we're on the same page." Phil tipped his hat in a goodbye, then he was off, down the stairs and out the side door right before Jack came storming up.

"Damn it, Coulson!" Jack shouted at the closed door, then muttered, "Fucker."

"Who was that?" One of the other dancers asked.

"The jackass who steals all my boys, that's what," Jack grunted, scowling at the dancer, "But he didn't talk to you, now did he, Phillips? So get back in place and let's see it again, looks like Rogers just opened a slot for ya."

"I haven't accepted ye—" Steve began, but it was a moot point.

"Fuck off already."

Steve took that as his cue to leave.

* * *

The entrance wasn't quite hidden, but it was easy to miss if you weren't looking for it: a single, simple door with the words _Club Shield _in fancy cursive and a small eagle with wings, their logo, just above it. There were no bouncers or place to pay, not in the front—it was only through the door and down a hallway that he was blocked from further entrance. There was still no bouncer, oddly enough, just the woman behind the counter.

Steve had no money to begin with, and the price listed was astoundingly high. He must've looked as panicked as he felt—he hadn't thought about how he'd pay to get in, and if he couldn't get in, he might not get the job, and he couldn't afford to lose both the job at Jack's as well as here—but woman peered down, dark eyes examining him shrewdly.

"Steve Rogers." It wasn't quite a question, but Steve's head shot up anyway.

"Yes ma'am, that's me." Steve nodded quickly. "I was told to speak with—"

"Nick, yes." The woman stepped out from behind the counter, extended a hand. "Maria Hill. Come with me."

"Uh, should you really just leave the—?" Steve glanced behind him, but another man, tall and bald, had already taken her place. "Oh. Wow."

"We're efficient."

"Why do you have the bouncer hide like that?"

"He's not the bouncer. He's backup," Maria corrected, "Bouncers are unnecessary. I tend to run the counters, but when I don't, it's Jasper or Phil, and none of us require assistance removing unruly customers from the premises."

"Got it." Steve nodded, absorbing that. "Cashier and bouncer in one. Saves money, I suppose."

"That it does." The corner of her mouth ticked up, apparently pleased that he'd picked up on that. "I'm the business manager. I handle finances, advertising, that sort of thing. Jasper Sitwell—he just took the counter—is the premises manager. He keeps an eye on the clientele once they're inside, makes sure everyone's behaving themselves and steps in if need be."

She opened the doors to main room, and Steve took it all in: the club was stunning. The décor was dark, as was the usual style, but instead of making the place look like a dirty, furtive secret, it just looked classy, perhaps somewhat mysterious. Sleek grey paneling accented the black booths and navy carpeting well, and Steve felt like he'd accidentally stepped into a spy movie instead of a whore house, so that was probably a good start. He hoped he could hold onto that.

The place felt busy without being crowded, and the music was low enough that conversation was possible but not forced. In the front there was just the bar and some tables, but the main seating was separated into three floor levels that lead down to the center stage below. The stage was large and easily visible from every angle in the club, and Steve could see the man dancing there now—he was shorter than Steve, with dirty blonde hair and lean but definitely visible muscles, particularly in his arms. He was in some purple feathered, stringy outfit Steve had no name for and frankly thought looked a little silly, though he'd certainly give the man one thing—he owned it. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the crowd clearly appreciated it.

"Hawkeye," Maria informed Steve.

"Do I…call him that?"

"Up to him." Maria gave a small shrug, just a miniscule lift of one shoulder. "You'll learn everyone's stage names—it's up to them if they want to tell you more. Give it time."

"Hey, Hill!" someone hissed. Steve turned to see a dark-haired woman behind the bar waving them over, "Who's this pretty boy?"

"Potential dancer."

"Nice." She gave a wolfish grin. "Spin for me blondie, what's your ass like?"

"What?"

"Darcy," Maria warned, then turned to Steve. "This is Darcy Lewis. She, Jane Foster, and Betty Ross are runners."

"Runners?"

"Yeah, clients put up one of those markers—" Darcy pointed out the little markers on the end of the tables. "—if they want refills on a drink or to buy one of you, then I run out and get their orders. Which, speaking of, it looks like I need do. See you around, hot stuff."

She hopped over the bar, smacked his ass, and disappeared down the aisle.

"Uh." Steve wasn't quite sure how to react to that.

"She's excitable, ignore her." A brunette exited the back of the bar, extending a hand. "Jane. I overheard; you're new?"

"Possibly." Steve shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. Coulson's been going on about you." Jane told him with a mysterious, amused smile.

"He has?"

"He talks like you lap-danced your way out of your mother's womb." Jane laughed.

"Oh." Steve tried his best not to blush.

"If you turn that red on stage, they're going to eat you right up." Jane raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"That's the plan." Maria gave a hint of a smirk, then led Steve further along.

They passed a number of tables, until Maria steered him towards one in the back that overlooked the club. Phil was there, seated next to a tall, intimidating man with an eye patch. They were passing papers between themselves, bickering, until Steve was within hearing distance and they fell silent. Phil nodded at him once, curt, and gestured to the open seat. He didn't look at all like someone who would "go on" about anyone.

"Hello." Steve greeted them both. The man with the eye patch grunted.

"Nick," Phil warned.

"Minute." Nick—the owner of the club, Steve remembered—flipped another page. "That's not gonna work."

"It'll work if we have another dancer."

"Who'd you steal him from?"

"Brand's place."

"Hm." Nick gave a more pleased-sounding grunt. "Fine. Sit. Maria, that'll be all. Take over before Jasper shoots someone again."

Steve sat, though he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder towards the door.

"Relax." Nick waved a hand. "I'm kidding. He's not armed."

"Anymore," Maria muttered, though Steve's superhearing caught it just fine. Apparently Nick had it too, because he looked up with a scowl.

"Point being that he's not armed."

"Of course." Maria was already leaving.

"Did he actually—?" Steve began, alarmed.

"We banned a client that was becoming a problem, they became a problem for Jasper, he fired a round into the ceiling roughly a yard above their head." Nick was flipping through the files again, talking about a shooting like someone discussed the weather. "He's licensed to carry and a damn good shot, he knew where he was aiming. Don't worry about it. What's your name again, kid?"

"Steve Rogers," Steve answered, then added, "And I'm 27."

"Right." Nick glanced up at that, examined his face. "Baby face, though. We can work with that."

"Thanks?"

"So: why do you want to strip in front of strangers for money?"

"Uh." Steve stuttered over the phrasing of the question. "I—I need the money."

"Right. And there's a hell of a lot of jobs out there. Why this one?"

"I don't have many options." Steve admitted. He'd thought the upside of this kind of job was the _lack _of an interview process. What exactly was he supposed to say? He was broke and desperate for cash, just like every other dancer they'd probably ever seen.

"Why?"

"I don't have the job experience. I was an art student for a few years, then I—well. Uh. Last year is classified, and now I'm here."

Eyebrows went up around the table.

"Classified," Nick repeated.

"Classified." Steve nodded. "I understand if you don't believe me. But it's true, and I can't give any other answer, which means I can't account to most employers why I didn't have a job last year. And most clubs don't, uh, interview, so."

"I see." Phil jotted something down. Steve did his best not to look like he was trying to sneak a glance. "I take it you didn't finish school?"

"No." Steve shook his head. "Too expensive. I'm—I should've been evicted months ago."

"How long do you think you'll need this job?" Nick leaned on the table a bit, holding eye contact with him, presumably so Steve wouldn't lie to him.

"A while," Steve said truthfully, "At least one or two years, probably more. I owe money to just about everyone I've ever met and then some, and I don't have the skills to go looking for other work yet."

Nick watched him steadily for another moment. He turned to Phil, who gave a single, sharp nod. Nick nodded back.

"Okay, kid." Nick sighed. "We'll take you on. Listen, I own the building and I run the show, but you need something, you go through Phil. He's the talent manager, you're the talent, see how that works?"

"Got it." Steve nodded quickly, grateful.

"Pay goes through Maria, 1st and 15th of every month. We don't do the money-throwing bit—it's cute, but everyone makes more this way. Someone holds money out to you, you don't take it. They pay the runners, then the runners come back and—"

"How much can they buy?" Steve interrupted. Nick shot him an unamused look.

"Don't interrupt me. Then the runners come back and check with Jane, who has the masterlist of consent. You set up what you will and won't do with Phil, and he'll pass it on to Jane. You can take the base pay and do nothing else, you can do strictly lap dances, you can fuck ten clients a night, that's all on you. Set it up with Phil. They pay the runners, runners bring it to Jane, Jane informs Phil, Phil sends you out. Easy."

"Right. Easy." Steve nodded, trying not to look as relieved as he felt. "Thank you so much, I really—"

"Go on already." Nick waved him on. "Phil'll show you the open apartments we've got. Rent's taken directly out of your pay, so don't worry about any bills."

"Does the base cover—?"

"Base pay is rent, utilities, and about fifty bucks. You can live off it if you absolutely have to, but I'd suggest at least doing some lap dances if you want to start paying off any debts."

"I will, again, thank you—"

"Go." Nick waved him off like one might a particularly pesky fly.

"Right, going." Steve nodded quickly, and Phil fell into step beside him.

"Have you given a stage-name any thought?"

"Not really," Steve admitted.

"Never used one before?"

"Well." Steve thought briefly of the idea they'd floated to him back when he'd been in the SSR program. "There was one. Kind of had a nice ring. It sounds a little arrogant though."

"We've got a dancer named after a Norse god."

"Oh." Steve blinked. "Wow. Okay. How's Captain America sound, then?"

"Captain America," Phil mused, "Hm. Catchy. Suppose we could use a little patriotic flair around here; there's a war on, after all. Gives our resident designer a good theme to work with too. What about your boundaries? You seem fairly clear on them."

"If someone teaches me how, I bet I could manage lap dances. But that's—for now, can that be—?"

"That can be all." Phil nodded once, flipping open his little notebook again and jotting it down. "I'll inform Jane."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, 'Captain'." The corner of Phil's lips turned up in amusement.

* * *

"Hey, Cap." Clint smacked Steve's ass as he made his way off-stage. "Great job. Man, first day opening up the lap dance slot and you've already got two."

"I do?" Steve panted, grabbing the towel Clint offered and wiping off his face. He never would've imagined what a workout this kind of thing could be.

"Yeah, tables 7 and 9. 7 looks like a bachelorette party, 9's a loner."

"A loner? Great." Steve sighed, brushing past him to grab the water bottle from his prep station and take a quick drink, hopefully quench some nerves as well as his thirst. Everyone always complained how handsy loners could be.

He'd been here almost two months now, and he'd gotten fairly used to the looking—looking he could handle. It was a lot of leering, but Steve had never been particularly body conscious to begin with and was self-aware enough to know he looked damn good these days. Hell, he got leered walking down the streets sometimes. Touching, on the other hand…well, touching would be new.

Not that he'd told Phil, or any of the others; this wasn't exactly the business for virgins, and he needed the job as much as ever. Though, it wasn't as if they'd just outright dump him; Phil hadn't been kidding when he'd said they took care of their own. This may not be his true purpose—please, God, let this not be his true purpose—but he kind of liked it here. He never would've expected it, not in a million years, but he'd fallen into it all fairly easily. The clothes were skimpy and the dances provocative, but like with just about anything, he did it enough times and he lost his embarrassment. He was actually getting fairly good at it. The dances were sort of fun, once you looked past the purpose of them. Not to mention it was all so colorful, so bright and theatric, very artsy in its own way.

His group had been so much more accepting than he'd expected, too. There were a lot of groups and plenty of shifts a night, which put them on a rotating schedule that meant they didn't meet many people outside their group. He got to know the people he did work with very well though, since they all lived on the same floor. He'd been placed in "A", the superhero-themed group, with Hawkeye, Black Widow, and Thor.

Hawkeye and Black Widow, aka Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov, lived in the apartments to the right and left him, respectively. Clint was their highest earner for lap dances, and the one who organized and decided all their training schedules. He was snarky and goofy and took absolutely nothing seriously, but Steve liked that about him. This wasn't the job most people set out for in life, but you'd never know it from talking to Clint. Natasha doubled as their choreographer and was supposed to be the best dominatrix in New York state. Though Steve didn't really go for that sort of thing, she also had a fantastically dry wit and intelligence in spades, so he thought she was pretty great too.

Thor, aka no-really-my-name-is-Thor Odinson, shared the apartment across the hall from Steve with Loki Laufeyson—who was not a dancer, as he had very snottily informed Steve the moment they met—and they ran the costumes department together. Thor was great, enthusiastic and theatrical with a keen eye for colors and judging what dancers would be most comfortable in. He was the kind of guy that brightened a room, that could set people at ease simply with his presence. His brother—half brother? Step brother? Brother in law? No one was quite sure—was definitely his polar opposite, but they managed to compliment each other. Where Thor was good with people, with matching personalities to costume styles, Loki was a wizard with design. He could get anything to fit anyone, and if he got his hands on it at some point, you knew you were bound to look nothing short of fantastic.

They were good friends with some of the others that worked the club too, and went out for drinks with them often. There was Bruce Banner, the club's bartender, who Steve expected clients to be rude to because of his easy-going nature, but actually commanded the bar with threats of a fearsome temper that Steve learned quickly was not a joke and not to be taken lightly. Betty, Jane, and Darcy, the three most take-no-shit runners Steve had ever met, also joined them most of the time, as well as Phil, though oddly only when Clint did.

It wasn't the life Steve would've ever imagined for himself, but he wasn't unhappy. He had friends, he was making money, and the dancing was even sort of enjoyable when he relaxed and let himself go with it. It wasn't permanent and he wouldn't want it to be, but he was alright.

"Loners aren't always bad," Clint assured him, "This one looks alright. More pass-the-time than horny-stalker. Though Darcy said they had crazy eyes for you, so who knows."

"Joy. Fingers crossed."

"Relax. Just remember what I taught you."

"Or if you actually want to succeed, remember what _I _taught you." Natasha corrected, exiting the stage behind Steve. "Use your hands. Figure-eight hips. Tease, don't touch."

"Got it, Tasha." Steve smiled.

"Why does nobody listen to me?" Clint complained, "I give great advice!"

"I don't think 'hands down, ass up, rock that booty everywhere' counts as particularly good advice," Steve said doubtfully.

"At the very least, it's not specific enough to be useful," Phil agreed as he joined them backstage, "Steve, with me. I assume Clint told you?"

"Yeah. 7 and 9?"

"Right. 7 is 7B. Do you remember the letter system?"

"B means second person from the left?"

"Exactly." Phil nodded once, then nudged him out the door that led down the steps and out into the crowd.

Tables 7 and 9 were both on the lower deck. 7B was a young, slim woman at a table full of women, all young and eager and flushed with alcohol; definitely a bachelorette party. 7B was likely the bride-to-be herself, and she tittered excitedly when he approached.

"Hello, ma'am." Steve shot her his most charming smile. "I hear you'd like a dance?"

They all had different openers, and Phil encouraged that. The more diverse the options, the more clientele they could appeal to—Clint was the silver-tongued tease, the one who dropped right into your lap with a smirk and a, "Hey baby, you wanted a ride?" Natasha was sultry and smooth with a hint of danger, a woman of few words and endless teasing. Thor was all physical, confident and capable with the powerful musculature of his body in a way Steve hadn't quite gotten a handle on just yet. Which was fine by them, apparently, as Clint had put it most plainly: Steve was supposedly their innocent. Steve himself wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he could certainly work with it.

He didn't stay with 7B long—she seemed just as embarrassed about it as Steve was—and he finished with a swivel of his hips and a slow wink. She flushed bright pink, and Steve considered it a job well done. He moved on, up the stairs to table 9, and…it was a man waiting for him. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? They catered to men too. Steve knew that. He expected this, at some point. Eventually.

He swallowed hard.

It didn't help that the man was painfully handsome. He was tan-skinned, with tousled brown hair and dark eyes that watched Steve hungrily as he approached. Steve tried to find something else to look at, anything but those eyes—his hands. Hands were good to watch, make sure there were no sudden movements, grabbing, that sort of thing. Right. Watch the hands.

He expected smooth, businessman hands, but was surprised; this man's hands looked rough, calloused, and he could see the dark lines of three different scars—one just under his knuckle, one that looked like a burn at the curve of his index finger, and a long one by his wrist. He made the mistake of looking back up, curious if something about the man would explain the state of his hands, and caught his gaze again. The man's lips curled up into an easy, disarming smile that Steve couldn't help returning. He didn't seem like a workman of any kind, his clothes all but screamed money—right. Money. Steve was doing this for money. There was nothing queer about him needing money.

"I hear you'd like a dance?"


	2. Chapter 2

God, Tony could use a drink.

Adventuring took a lot out of a man. Finding out you'd been in bed with a Nazi affiliate for months and that your father had been alive for years while also assisting the Nazis, well, that took a hell of a lot more. He hadn't been in love with Gialetta, nothing so complex, but he'd certainly been taken with her. Her last words had played over in his mind—at least for the naïve few days he'd thought her dead—too vindictively accurate to let go of without a healthy amount of booze to drown them.

_Tony Stark, brave adventurer. But I've been there in the middle of the night, haven't I? I know better, because deep down, you're just a scared little boy, aren't you? Running and running. Yes, I know that heart of yours._

He'd even told her about his damn heart. What a fool he'd been.

The recovered orichalcum from the trident of Atlantis powered his heart now, but it was still a weakness, still a chink in the armor that he should've taken more care to hide. He sighed; too trusting, she'd called him. Wasn't that just the crux of it?

The streets of New York were thriving, the bustling night crowd in full swing, and Tony dodged and weaved through the throng of people with ease. He liked walking in the city. It was a good way to clear one's head. It wasn't quite enough tonight though, not after his latest scrape, so he ducked into the nearest club for something a little stronger.

It was a nice place, secluded, with blue and white lights streaming softly from within. Tony had no need to pay for sex, but he certainly wasn't above admiring a nice show every so often. On a night like tonight, who needed the complications of actual human interaction, anyway? He paid at the door and shuffled in, as faux-casual as he could manage. He had no desire to be caught out as Tony Stark, Billionaire Adventurer, to be fawned over and flirted at all night. He just wanted a strong drink and a pair of pretty legs to watch a little while.

The music was somewhat louder than he typically cared for, the same thumping beats as in every burlesque place, meant to get hearts racing and blood flowing to all the right regions. It wasn't good and it wasn't bad, just familiar, which was rather good in and of itself. The place itself was packed, though no more so than any other place in New York offering cheap alcohol and scantily-clad women. Most of the men clamored up front, shoving each other jocularly, rowdy and booze-flushed and eager for a show.

The show itself didn't start for another ten minutes, during which Tony took a seat and ordered a round. He was on his second when the curtain rolled up, and he glanced over idly. The dancers were mostly men with a smattering of women; Tony hadn't realized he'd been walking into that sort of place, but he didn't mind. He'd never been particularly discriminatory in his bedroom activities, and he'd heard of places like these beginning to pop up. He thought perhaps the novelty of it might maintain his interest.

It didn't. Not half an hour in, and Tony was already bored. He understood the rowdy, jubilant crowd up front—it had been him, once—but couldn't muster the energy to envy them. Bright lights and skimpy dancers were a wonderful thing to the young. It was new and exciting and just dirty enough to feel risqué, to get the adrenaline going. But it got old. Tony had gotten old. When had that happened? He swirled his drink thoughtfully, took a long swig, then signaled the keep for another.

He'd been noticing it more and more lately. Of course his heart condition had always been a surefire reminder of his impending mortality, but there were other things, little things; he drank less, he slept more, he took better care of himself. He saw women for months instead of days, found himself seeking connections instead of the string of nights he'd been so fond of in his youth.

He hadn't thought Gialetta would be "the one", so to speak, but he'd considered it. Hoped, perhaps. Not so much for her—particularly now that it was clear the "her" he knew had been little more than a mask—but for the idea of her. The partner. Someone to share more than a bed with. Someone to accompany him on his adventures, to snap at him when he took unnecessary risks, to go home with him at the end of it all. Alright, he could admit it; he wanted to be valued. Wanted to be more than the Stark Adventures poster boy.

Nothing like almost dying to remind you exactly how little you really mattered.

He tipped back the rest of his glass and called for another. He wasn't drunk and didn't plan on getting there, but three drinks later he certainly qualified as pleasantly buzzed. The dancer rotation had switched in the meantime, two blonde males taking the stage. The first was clearly the more experienced, some handsome-looking thing in a feathery getup altogether too complex to appeal much to Tony; take that to bed, and he'd wind up with feathers in unpleasant places.

The other, though.

The other was younger and simpler. His hair was styled a little neater, his movements a little stiffer, his expression more sweet than sultry. Tony would bet his entire fortune the man had never done more than a lap dance in his entire life. He glanced around with a nervous smile before beginning the routine, and Tony found himself immediately entranced. The outfit was perhaps a little more patriotic than Tony's usual tastes, but the colors suited him and it was certainly tailored well. The shimmery material hugged the blonde's every muscle, of which he had a remarkable amount—the man was _built—_and though Tony still doubted he'd ever done more than dance, he was nonetheless utterly enchanting at it. He was quite possibly the single the most graceful person Tony had ever seen.

A runner was approaching him before he even realized his hand had shot up.

"That one." Tony immediately pointed to him. "Spangles, there."

"That would be Captain America," The woman clarified. Her nametag said Darcy, but Tony could care less.

"Captain America," he repeated. Hard to imagine anything else, the way the man dressed. "What's he selling?"

"Lap dances only."

"Thought so." Tony pulled out his wallet. "Sign me up."

He had to wait until the end of the set, unfortunately, but the anticipation was nice in its own way. Goddamn, the man was beautiful. Beautiful wasn't often a word Tony associated with men; men were hard lines and muscles, certainly not a bad thing, but a different thing. A handsome thing. Which this Captain America absolutely was, too, but…when he glanced Tony's way there was something intangible there, something fleeting and ephemeral that Tony wanted to grasp tight with both hands. There was something about the Captain Tony couldn't quite put a finger on. Something…softer. Not feminine—not with a body like that—but soft in the way of kindness, of heart—

Damn. Tony pressed a hand to his forehead. He was doing it again, projecting what he wished to see, getting his hopes up for nothing. He was always falling for some imagined idea of a person instead of taking the time to get to know them. Doing the very same to Gia had nearly gotten him killed by Nazis, did he never learn? Honestly. He wanted a lover so badly he was imagining soulmates in hookers. He had a problem, was what he had. Love addiction, something of that sort. Perhaps alcoholism. Alright, probably alcoholism. He put his glass down with a clink, pushed it aside and stood to leave.

The very moment he did so, Captain America stepped down the side steps. He was walking not quite in Tony's direction but to a table nearby, and Tony couldn't help watching just a little longer. The man came to a stop in front of some lucky woman, asked if she'd like a dance. Tony didn't have to see her to know her answer—who alive would deny him?—but it was the Captain who surprised Tony. Was he blushing? He hadn't been earlier. Perhaps the routines had been performed enough that he'd lost shame, but the rosy pink to his cheeks now was, well, it was sweet. Everything about him seemed sweet, and there was that damn _look _to his face, something Tony couldn't stop seeing but couldn't quite describe, either. He was imagining it, he knew he was, and he ought to simply walk out now and forget the whole thing.

He ought to, but as the Captain made his way over he gave Tony a small, earnestly nervous smile, and Tony sank right back into his chair.

"I hear you'd like a dance?" The Captain's voice was smooth and soft, confident in spite of his clear inexperience.

Christ, Tony was so done for.

"Sure would, sweetheart." Tony offered him a smile in return. The Captain looked momentarily surprised—the sweetheart bit, probably, but Tony had always been loose-tongued when it came to nicknames—but he found his balance again quickly.

He turned his back to Tony, shimmying his hips nicely like he'd done for the girl before. His movements seemed a little stiffer though, a touch more uncomfortable; Tony wondered why. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to touch the Captain's arm as he asked. The Captain flinched and looked like a startled deer, at which point Tony remembered there was likely a policy against that. He hadn't meant anything by it, he was just a touchy person, but he quickly put both hands in the air.

"Apologies." He made a show of putting them behind his back. "Won't happen again. I was only going to ask why you look so uncomfortable. Shall I sit back more?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Well, I am." The Captain ground down against him.

"Ah." Tony bit his lip. If the Captain was hoping to shut him up with friction, he'd be sorely disappointed. If anything, arousal only made Tony talk more; every bed partner he'd ever had had complained vigorously. "If that's what I get for asking, perhaps I ought to ask again, darling."

A little furrow appeared between the Captain's eyebrows. "You shouldn't call me that."

"Is it against the rules?"

"I…well, I don't think so."

"Certainly not a rule I've ever heard. Considering what I paid, I'd hope I could call you whatever I like." The Captain gave a soft snort, but said nothing. Tony took that as encouragement. "What is it, doll?"

"I doubt whatever you paid was worth much to you."

"Not really, no," Tony admitted, "And I'd have paid more just to see you this close."

"You would?" The Captain seemed surprised.

"Much more," Tony murmured as the Captain rubbed against him, tantalizingly close and impossibly far all at once. It was probably for the best his hands stayed behind his back, he wasn't certain how good he'd be at keeping them from straying.

"Why?"

"I like you," Tony admitted simply.

"You like the window dressing."

"Mm, not quite. I admit, the outfit isn't to my taste."

"Maybe not, but you like the muscles." The Captain bent forward, arms flexing and abdomen contracting in a way that had Tony's pants going horribly tight. God, who had a shoulder-to-waist ratio like that? He wasn't a human being, he was an upside down triangle— "Not the man."

It was true, and Tony liked him all the more for it. Immensely more than the handful of dancers he'd bought before, all the sultry, whatever-you-want-baby, I'm-all-yours types. Tony had enough smooth-talking charisma of his own; he liked a little fire, a little bite.

"For now," Tony conceded, "But I admit, the more you talk, the more I find I really do quite like you."

The Captain fell pointedly silent. Tony laughed.

"If you're going to freeze me out, I might as well start whispering endearments in your ear, see if I can get that lovely blush of yours to make a reappearance—"

"Or I could decide your lap dance is over early." The Captain shot him an exasperated look over his shoulder, but there was a hint of amusement to it.

"Don't deny it, I amuse you." Tony grinned.

"Fools amuse me." The Captain shot back.

"Then I pity not the fool who wins your approval."

"What is that, Shakespeare?" The Captain looked stunned, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth no matter how he tried to hide it. "Did you really just quote Shakespeare in a strip club?"

"Says the stripper who recognized Shakespeare."

"Touché."

"I'm a class act, darling, I keep trying to tell you."

"You're something, that's for sure." The Captain chuckled.

He turned, facing Tony again to swivel his hips and drop low for a slow, alluring rise that gave Tony a prime view of every glitter-covered, sweat-glistening muscle of the man's gorgeous abdomen.

"I…" Tony's mouth felt dry, but he recovered quickly. "I. Uh."

Okay, not that quickly.

"No touching, that's still a thing?" he finally blurted.

"Yes." Something about that seemed to make the Captain wary again, and Tony regretted ever opening his mouth.

"Not that I'd touch, sweetheart, honestly, hands to myself, I promise," Tony rushed to assure him, but the Captain was already stepping away.

"Time's up, anyway."

"I'll see you around, then—" Tony began, and was interrupted by another soft little snort. "You don't think we'll see each other around?"

"I don't imagine we run in similar circles, no." The Captain eyed Tony's admittedly very expensive watch.

"Maybe not. But what if I'd like to see you?"

"You can see me anytime you like." The Captain shrugged stiffly. "So long as you're willing to pay for it."

"Then it's a date."

"It's most certainly not."

"You're a hard sell, you are." Tony couldn't help a smile. All pretenses of leaving and forgetting about the star-spangled Captain with the soft eyes and sweet smile were now completely abandoned; he'd never been able to resist a challenge. "Fair enough. Not a date. A future meeting during which I will convince you to attend a date with me. Longer title, I suppose, but if accuracy's what you're going for…"

"There will be no…_dates_," the Captain hissed, clearly embarrassed by the way he went quiet on the word _date, _as if anyone could even hear them over the booming music, "That's not how it works, you can't buy dates."

"I know that. I'm not trying to buy a date with you, I'm asking you on one. Well, I'd pay, of course, I'm not a savage, but I wouldn't be attempting to buy you—"

"You can't just—just _ask _me on a date," the Captain sputtered, "It's illegal."

"So was alcohol just ten short years ago, and yet…" Tony picked his glass up, took a drink. He then waved at the club in general. "Not to mention, darling, I hate to break it to you but your employers work in quite the legal grey area as well. Times change. Laws catch up."

"That is _not _how the legal system works—"

"Captain." Some bland everyman in a suit appeared out of nowhere, placing a firm hand on the Captain's shoulder. "Your next set is soon."

"Right." The Captain stammered, stepping back and away immediately. "Of course."

The Captain all but bolted away, back off towards the stage. The everyman gave Tony a silent, assessing look—fair enough, Tony supposed—but he'd done nothing wrong so it didn't matter. Eventually the everyman disappeared again, and Tony could watch Steve's second set in peace.

Hopelessly infatuated peace.

* * *

Steve had a problem.

He wasn't sure if the man knew his schedule or if he just spent all his free time in clubs, but every night for the past month Steve had worked, _he_ was in the audience. Every night like clockwork, the man showed up. He'd wait in the audience until Steve's set—Darcy said he'd just hang out, have a few drinks, and never so much as glance at the other dancers—then purchase a lap dance the moment he could. Steve knew he didn't really even have a right to be upset about it; the man wasn't handsy, or a stalker, and he never tried to grope Steve or follow him out of the club. Steve had considered at first that maybe it was because he was a man—Steve wasn't queer, despite what he had to do for the job—but none of the other male clients got under his skin like he did. They were better than women, honestly; women tried to touch more, and they were so embarrassed about it that they embarrassed Steve by proxy. Men tended to just relax and enjoy the show, which made it about ten times easier for Steve.

Except for one man.

He just—he _talked _too much. It was a trivial complaint, Steve knew, but it got to him. He talked and he talked, like they were out having a chat over dinner and Steve just so happened to be gyrating in his lap in the meantime. It was unnerving and strange and it _got _to him; Steve talked back more often than not, partially because he'd never learned when to shut the hell up, mostly because something about the man made him utterly impossible to ignore. Steve knew he shouldn't even care, but every time he looked out into the audience and caught that one man's eyes…something warm and fluttery started up in his chest.

Dread, obviously.

"It's just, does he have to come _every _night?"

"I know, man," Clint commiserated, "It's so rude of him to give you money like that."

"Hawkeye." Steve scowled.

"Come on, listen to yourself. So you've got a regular, what's the problem? All he wants is a little lap dance and a chat, it's not like he wants you to eat him out twice a week. Had that—_that's _a complaint-worthy customer." Steve must've looked as horrified as he felt, because Clint laughed. "Hey, he was embarrassed enough about his kink that he paid double, I sure wasn't complaining."

"Does 'eat him out' mean what I think it means?" Steve winced.

"It sure ain't a dinner date." Clint laughed again. "Look, that guy's making it possible for you to live off lap dances, am I right?"

"I guess," Steve admitted. It was true. He was even managing to—however incrementally—pay back some debts.

"Would you rather start blowing clients?" Clint pointed out.

"No," Steve muttered.

"Then get out there," Phil answered as he approached, not missing a beat, "Four tables tonight. 4A, 11, 22B, 24A. Hawkeye, you've got six and a back room—3C, 7, 16B, 18C, 21, 29A, then an hour in Blue Room."

"Hot damn." Clint winked at Steve. "Busy night. Later, Cap."

Steve sighed, and Phil looked him over. "Is he harassing you?"

"Clint?"

"The client. I'd assessed him as a non-threat. Should he be re-evaluated?"

"No," Steve mumbled.

"You sound disappointed."

"No, no," He backtracked. "It's just, I get this weird…feeling, whenever I see him. Call it an instinct. It'd be easier if he _was _harassing me and I could just report him, that's all."

"I see." Phil noted something on his clipboard. "We'll keep an eye on him as precaution. Always trust your instincts in this business, Captain."

"Thank you, Phil."

"Of course." Phil nodded once, concise. "Now go on."

Steve's first three tables went smoothly; one woman and two men, no hands, no troublemakers. Last, as he always managed to be, was _the _man. It would be convenient to ask his name for reference, but Steve refused to give in to his game, and the man seemed to have caught on to Steve's stubborn resistance and in return never offered it.

"I assume you want a dance?" Steve greeted, the now-familiar feelings starting up the moment he met the man's eyes, warmth and adrenaline making him feel anxious and flushed. Dread, obviously.

"Sure do, darling." The man smiled at him warmly, too warmly, warm and open in the way that always made the feelings of dread all the stronger.

Steve began his routine without another word, though he couldn't help noticing the man's hands stayed in his lap this time instead of behind his back. Would he try anything? Adrenaline burst in Steve's chest again, stronger this time. How would it feel? The man worked with machines; he'd mentioned it before. It was why his hands looked the way they did, rough and strong, marked with callouses and scars that would catch on Steve's skin and make him shiver, make him—

God Almighty, what was _wrong _with him around this man?

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" The man leaned forward.

"Yes—no—nothing," Steve brushed him off, not wanting to see the concern in the his features, "Nothing's wrong."

The man didn't so much as pretend to believe him. Instead, he brushed his fingertips over Steve's knee with a sympathetic frown. "Rough day?"

"You're sure not making it easier." Steve kept his breathing steady, even. He opened his mouth to tell him to stop touching, that it was against the rules, but the slow circles his thumb was tracing over Steve's knee felt—it felt—

"I could," the man suggested.

"Could what?" Steve had lost his train of thought.

"Make your day a little easier."

"Are you offering to leave?"

"I was offering an ear to listen, but of course I'll leave if you really want me to." The man gave a small chuckle and a slight lift of the shoulder, unperturbed as always by Steve's attempts to be brusque. The man had offered before, told him again and again that if Steve truly wanted to be left alone, all he had to do was ask and the man would never bother him again. Steve couldn't bring himself to; he told himself it was because Nick would be angry. "Just say the word. But I don't think you will."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because I think you like me." The man simply smiled, disarming as ever.

"I don't know you."

"Doesn't mean you don't like me."

"It should." Steve was rapidly growing less and less sure who exactly he was trying to convince.

"But I don't believe it does." The man's thumbs were still rubbing reassuring circles over his skin. It was such a simple thing, barely a graze of his fingertips, and it shouldn't have affected Steve in the slightest. It felt electric anyway, his skin tingling everywhere the man touched. "Which is good, because I do so like you, Captain."

"You still don't know me," Steve managed to remind him after a moment, still battling whatever emotion was rolling around in his chest. Dread, it had to be. He'd only dread another man touching him this way, nothing else.

"No, but I want to," the man told him earnestly.

"I don't see why."

"Because I like you."

"You're talking in circles."

"What, I have to know every inch of your soul just to take a liking to you?"

"Not—no, I suppose not, but—"

"By your logic, no one would ever bother with anyone else."

"That's all well and fine," Steve admitted, "But I don't see what you could possibly be basing your so-called fondness on."

"Your smile's quite lovely, for one." He brushed a thumb over Steve's jaw. It was brief, his hand back down in his lap where it belonged within a moment, and Steve blamed the speed of the move for why he didn't manage to tell the man off for it. "If far too rare."

"Perhaps I'd smile a little more if men like you would learn to keep your hands to yourselves."

"Hands to myself," the man agreed, tucking his hands back behind him, "Promise."

Steve was about to thank him, of all things, when instead of behaving himself he canted his hips up to rub against Steve in earnest. Steve had thought it'd been excruciating before; that had been nothing. Nothing at all compared to how it felt to have the man writhing beneath him, rubbing himself off against Steve's cock to a slow, burning rhythm that made Steve's breath catch in his throat. Steve bit back a sound that would've only encouraged him, and tried to right his mind. This wasn't allowed, at least, it wasn't what the man had paid for, a lap dance was just that, a dance, a little friction maybe, but with Steve in control and only to tease, this was—this was—

God Almighty this was good.

He should've said something, _anything, _to make it stop, but he couldn't bring himself to. Couldn't muster the energy or desire to do anything but rut against Tony in turn, add to the burning friction building fast between them. It was too much and not enough and it had him dazed with pleasure and lust and something else, and before Steve could think about what he was doing he was straddling the man in earnest, leaning forward to rest his forearms against the man's shoulders. Hands came up to rest against Steve's back, hold him steady as something close to a moan escaped Steve's lips. He could feel his heartbeat like it was in his throat, and he had to gasp just to get enough air.

"Is this okay?" the man murmured softly, fingers coming up to brush over Steve's cheek. Even the simple touch lit sparks that burned under his skin, tingling and electric and utterly dizzying.

"_Yes,"_ was the only word Steve could have possibly mustered, and even then his voice broke on it like he was fourteen again.

"Captain."

Steve startled badly, Phil's clipped voice bringing him back from whatever break from sanity he'd just had. He shot back, off the man's lap to stumble away from him. He swallowed hard, trying to will away the powerful surge of what he couldn't help identifying as disappointment. He should've been disappointed in himself; what he was feeling was wrong. He knew that, just like he knew he should be disgusted with himself, but…he also knew that wasn't why he was feeling disappointed.

"I believe the client has received what he paid for," Phil intoned. Steve couldn't read him at all, even more than usual.

Phil knew. Steve felt sick.

"I'd pay whatever fees this required." The man pursed his lips at Phil. "You know that I would. You didn't have to interrupt the poor man."

Indignation cut through the nausea; was he referring to _Steve? _What the hell was that supposed to mean, 'poor man'? Was rubbing him off supposed to be some obscene form of _pity?_

"This _poor man _is just fine." Steve grit his teeth. "And I don't need your—"

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way." The man reached out impulsively, catching Steve's wrist, his thumb immediately starting with those damn comforting circles again. "You'd had a rough day, I only thought—"

"This is my job." Steve cut him off, yanking his hand away. "And you're my client. You're not here to comfort me."

"I went about it the wrong way," He conceded, the too-genuine nature of his contrition only adding to Steve's growing irritation, "I'm sorry."

"No, that's not—" Steve started, frustrated with him for not _getting _it. It didn't matter how he went about it, he shouldn't have been trying to comfort Steve in the first place, he should've accepted his stupid lap dance without complicating everything by running his damn mouth and moving his damn hips and _looking _at Steve like that—

"You have my card on file." The man stood. He subtly adjusted the seam of his pants, and it belatedly occurred to Steve that he'd been just as aroused by what they'd done as Steve had been. Still was, if he was honest with himself. The man collected his coat and turned to Phil. "Charge me for whatever you see fit."

"You're leaving?" Steve hadn't meant to ask; the words slipped out before he could stop them, and he hated himself for how pathetic it sounded.

"You asked me to." The man gave a slight frown, and there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something like hurt before he turned his gaze away.

"I didn't, actually," Steve admitted weakly, anger ebbing away at the look in the man's eyes, "And you're a client, you paid to be here. You can stay, Mr, uh. You can stay."

"Stark." A smile stretched slowly over his face again, and Steve couldn't stop the flash of thought; _God Almighty, he's handsome. _"Tony Stark. And I appreciate it, but I ought to be going anyway. I'm a half hour late meeting a friend as it is."

"Then we'll charge you for the dance, Mr. Stark." Phil nodded once, concise. "Thank you for your patronage."

"Indeed." Mr. Stark—_Tony _was dangerous, _Mr. Stark_ was cordial—tipped his hand towards Steve. "And thank you, sweetheart."

Steve watched him go. He wasn't certain why, but he couldn't quite bring himself to stop until Mr. Stark disappeared out the door. When he finally shook his head and returned his attention to Phil, he found himself being watched with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.

"Phil?"

"Return to the stage, Captain. Your next set is in five minutes."

"There's nothing—"

"Five minutes, Captain." Phil only repeated, state of mind as unreadable as ever.

He walked away without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony was a cad.

He shouldn't have done what he had to the Captain, and he felt horribly guilty about it. Regardless of the occupation he held, the Captain was clearly sexually uncomfortable with men, and Tony knew that. He'd known it from their very first dance. He'd resolved to be as much of a gentleman as he possibly could be, go as slow as the Captain could possibly want, and he had. For a month now, he had. He'd returned to the club every night—as if he ever could've stayed away once he'd gotten hooked on that smile—and though he'd bought dances, he'd kept his hands to himself and done it only to steal time with the Captain.

He was winning him over too, he knew. Slowly, of course, but Tony didn't mind. He was enjoying courting the Captain. The man behind the spangly corset had Tony captivated; the Captain was careful not to reveal personal information, but Tony was perceptive and he'd picked up plenty. He was intelligent and well-read, with a wonderfully dry sense of humor that came out when Tony could get him to forget their surroundings. He had a certain charm to him too, though nothing like Tony's own. Where Tony was silver-tongued and smooth, the Captain was sweet, light-hearted. Also quite adorable, frankly, and probably the only grown man in the world Tony would ever consider calling so.

He was altogether intoxicating, and though Tony knew he was falling too hard and too fast, it'd never stopped him before and certainly wouldn't now. He was a romantic fool, he knew, but what was life about if not taking chances? So Tony took his time with the Captain. Though he couldn't bring himself to play coy—he came to the club every day like clockwork—he made sure to keep things between them relaxed, friendly. He went slow as molasses, made sure the Captain was comfortable with him above all else. He wanted to earn the Captain's trust, and he liked to think that he was; the Captain had been rewarding him with increasingly easy smiles, delicious blushes at Tony's jokes and nicknames, and wry, witty responses to his banter. For all that the Stark Adventures magazines portrayed Tony as living and loving the fast life of the rich and promiscuous, he didn't mind going slow. It was quite nice, actually, after all that trouble with Gia. He was perfectly content with how things were.

At least, until he'd gone and been an utter cad.

He felt horrifically guilty, not to mention furious with himself. The press could say what they liked, the magazines could portray him however pleased them, but Tony had a moral center despite public opinion and he'd never been anything less than a gentleman to any of his romantic partners. He hadn't _meant _to rub off against the Captain like a damn hound, he'd just…things had spiraled. The Captain had simply been so upset when he'd arrived, something preying on his mind clearly more so than the usual. He kept looking at Tony's hands as well, though Tony hadn't put together any sort of connection there. He'd offered to listen, of course, but the Captain hadn't been eager to share his troubles. He'd just looked so stressed, and he'd been very receptive to Tony touching his knee and cheek, so it wasn't _such _a stretch to think he might be receptive to something else.

He'd only meant to tease, anyway. A little joking friction, he'd thought, to lighten whatever thoughts had put the Captain in such a gloomy mood. He'd completely assumed the Captain would roll his eyes and tell him to behave himself, that maybe he'd get one of those small, hidden little smiles the Captain thought Tony didn't catch. But then, well. Then he'd _responded. _And oh, how he'd responded; he'd not only rubbed back, he'd melted into Tony's arms, braced himself against Tony's shoulders, panted into his neck…Tony was only fucking _human, _Christ. Even then he'd made sure to ask, and he'd gotten a _yes _that bordered on the lovely moan Tony would be hearing in his dreams for far too many nights to come. It had been blissful, that was undeniable, and Tony wouldn't have ever regretted it but for the look on the Captain's face afterwards.

It was not the look of a man who understood and felt comfortable with what he'd been doing. It was the look of a man unsure and ill at ease, the very look Tony had been trying so hard to avoid. This was why he'd wanted to take the Captain out to dinner first, show him he was interested in more than the spangly panties and the shiny muscles. And he could still do that. He could. He'd never been a man who gave up easily, and he'd be damned if he started now. He would simply have to change his strategy, that was all. The Captain had asked him to stay, even asked for his name; Tony clearly still had a chance—

"Tones." Rhodey rapped his knuckles on Tony's worktable impatiently. "You here, or what?"

"I'm here." Tony chuckled, shaking his head. He could think on the conundrum of the Captain later. Now, he had to take Rhodey's measurements.

"No, you're not." Rhodey rolled his eyes, but extended his arms so Tony could measure them. "What's with you, lately? I haven't seen you in near to a month."

"I've been…busy," Tony admitted, and Rhodey immediately leaned forward to scrutinize.

"I _know _that look. You've met someone!"

"You're going to mock me." Tony sighed.

"No, no," Rhodey insisted, "Tell me all about her."

"Not a her."

"Him, then." Rhodey waved him on. They'd known each other ages; he was aware of the fluidity of Tony's sexuality.

"You can't laugh at me."

"I wouldn't."

"You will." Tony sighed. "You're going to laugh, and then you're going to give me that damn _talk _again."

"Do I need to give you the talk?" Rhodey narrowed his eyes.

Tony scowled. "You know how you always complain I'd hand my heart over to a streetwalker if they had kind enough eyes?"

"Oh, lord." Rhodey groaned. "Tones, tell me you didn't."

"He's not technically speaking a streetwalker," Tony clarified, "He's a dancer."

"I'm going to assume you don't mean ballroom."

"Go ahead," Tony challenged, "Laugh. Let's hear it."

Rhodey couldn't seem to help himself; a laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. Tony dropped the measuring tape on the table—he wished he'd been holding a wrench or something, the louder clang would've been much more satisfying—and made a show of beginning to storm off.

"Hey, no, wait." Rhodey grabbed his arm. "Come on, don't leave—"

"I told you who I've fallen for and you laughed at me. I don't see why I should be so kind as to make you my sidekick," Tony pretended to rethink his offer.

"_Partner," _Rhodey corrected, "We agreed on crime-fighting _partner._"

"Sidekick's got a better ring."

"Fine," Rhodey muttered, "Call it whatever you want. But you promised you'd build me a suit, Tones."

"And you promised you wouldn't laugh," Tony countered.

"If I let you go on about him for an hour or so, will you forgive me?"

"Well, I suppose." Tony immediately caved. "You know I can't stay mad at you, platypus—"

"Right." Rhodey rolled his eyes. "It has nothing at all to do with how you're itching to talk about him."

"I'm not itching, who's itching?" Tony waved him off, ignoring the way he was admittedly bouncing a bit as he returned to Rhodey's side to finish the measurements. "Anyway, so he's a blond, and he has the absolute bluest eyes you've ever seen. I mean that, I do, they're like something out of a penny novel—"

"What's with you and eyes?"

"Windows to the soul, Rhodes, honestly," Tony scoffed, "Where's your sense of romanticism? And he has a lovely soul, truly lovely. He's got this…fire, about him; a spark, you know? I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him."

"Sounds like you've got enough romanticism for the both of us," Rhodey chuckled.

"Ignoring you." Tony shot him a look, before returning to the much more preferable topic of the Captain. "He's quite kind, too. And clearly intelligent, always ready with some witty retort to my advances—"

"An intelligent stripper." Rhodey raised an amused eyebrow.

"You don't have to say it like that," Tony grumbled.

"I'm sorry, are you discussing thematic literature and trading engineering designs between blowjobs?" Rhodey snorted.

"There have been no blowjobs," Tony told him in his most haughty, _why you crass cad _voice, "We've just been chatting."

Rhodey stared at him blankly. "Chatting."

"Chatting," Tony confirmed, guiltily leaving out the part where he'd nearly rubbed one off against the Captain's hip.

"In a strip club."

"The location is unimportant."

"It seems like a mildly significant factor."

"We have a connection," Tony informed him matter-of-factly, "_Where _we connected hardly matters."

"It matters a little." Rhodey seemed to be trying not to laugh again.

"He'll concede to a date soon, I'm sure of it," Tony insisted petulantly.

"'Concede'?" Rhodey gave in to another laugh. "He doesn't even_ like_ you?"

"He likes me just fine." Tony scowled. Rhodey was still laughing. "He does! I know he does."

Tony knew he could be…persistent, and that he had a bit of an idealistic streak when it came to romance, but he wasn't completely oblivious, either. He'd been going to see the Captain for a month now, and every time the Captain took the stage, he always sought Tony out. He'd try to look away, but his gaze would return every time. He'd get this little…smile when he saw Tony, not quite a full one, but this slippery, bashfully pleased little curve that disappeared just as fast as it appeared. It was the sweetest smile Tony had ever seen; how could he resist coming back for more?

The Captain always engaged with him, too. He could've ignored him, or asked one of the other dancers to give Tony his dance instead, but he didn't. He talked to Tony, really talked to him, despite how many times Tony had made it clear that if the Captain really wanted him gone he'd leave immediately. But the Captain always neatly deflected, never asking him to stay, never asking him to go. Tony truly, honestly believed that the Captain _liked _him; if he didn't, he would've stopped bothering the man weeks ago.

The Captain simply wasn't comfortable in his own skin yet, at least not about this; Tony understood that. God, how he understood that. It had taken him near to a decade to come to terms with the more fluid nature of his sexuality, and it was still one of the more difficult things he'd ever done. Regardless of the easy-going nature of the clubs, there were still horrible stigmas surrounding anything more serious than that. Around what Tony wanted.

He could go slow, though. He could go slow as molasses, and he damn well would until the Captain was completely at ease with him. Tony could admit, he was plenty attracted to the gorgeous man, but he wanted to earn the Captain's trust more than he wanted a night in his bed. If all he wanted was a one-off, he certainly had enough money to get the owner to order the Captain to drop his star-spangled panties, but the thought alone made him feel unclean. He wanted the Captain to trust him, to _want _to let him in his heart and, sure, yes, those star-spangled panties that Tony could admit were growing on him. At least, he was cultivating a healthy appreciation for them on the Captain.

Slow.

He had to go slow.

No matter how much the memory of that shimmery fabric against him was going to haunt his dreams.

"Would you mind coming out of your fantasy world long enough to continue working on my suit?" Rhodey gave his shoulder a shake.

"So demanding." Tony chuckled. "This is going to take more than a night, you know. I just needed your measurements for the initial schematics, I'm going to need at least a month to put all this together. Not to mention you wanted more weapons on yours, which means I'll need to readjust the—"

"I got it, Tones." Rhodey held up both hands. "Time. Engineering things. Now the real question is, if you weren't spending your nights in strip clubs, how long would it take you?"

"Same amount, you jackass." Tony rolled his eyes. "Now hold still, or this is going to hurt."

* * *

"Oh my _god." _Clint groaned. "Two minutes. Two minutes! That's a record, that has to be a record—"

"I didn't say his name, I wasn't talking about him in _particular,_" Steve protested, looking to Natasha for support.

They were all sitting in various slouched positions on the couches in Clint's apartment, Steve and Bruce on one, Clint draped across another, Natasha and Darcy on the other. They were having a beer together after work like they usually did, and Steve couldn't help broaching the topic. He just wanted to know if what had…happened on the floor tonight, with him and To—with him and Mr. Stark, if that was normal. If it happened to the others, too. Instead of supporting him, Natasha snorted. He looked to Bruce, then Darcy; Bruce looked away innocently, Darcy rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry, do you talk about anyone else?" Darcy gave a gusty sigh. "Because if you do, I sure haven't heard it lately."

"I only asked if frottage was normal for a lap dance," Steve continued steadfastly, "You didn't have to—"

"You don't fool me, college boy." Clint waved his beer in Steve's general direction. Steve had only been in school for two years, but it was more than any of the others and Clint never let him forget it. "I don't know what French cheese has to do with lap dances, but I sure as hell recognize _that _look. It's your beard-boy look—two parts frustration, two parts repression, eight parts besotted."

Bruce laughed at Clint hard enough to choke on his beer. "You think 'frottage' is French for cheese?"

"Fuck if I know." Clint threw a hand up dismissively.

"It's a fancy word for dry humping," Darcy informed him.

"I knew you were talking about beard-boy!" Clint accused Steve.

"Tony," Steve corrected, "I mean—Mr. Stark. His name is Mr. Stark."

"Ugh." Clint winced. "Don't call him Mr. whoever. It sounds creepy, like he's your teacher or some shit.

"Unless you're into that." Darcy winked at him.

"I am not 'intothat', Darce." Steve sighed, exasperated.

"But you are into Tony," Natasha said matter-of-factly.

"I—" Steve stuttered over his denial. "Of course not. He's a—a man. I'm not like that. How could you just…_say _something like that?"

Natasha raised a single disbelieving eyebrow. Bruce examined his beer innocently. Clint and Darcy hooted with laughter.

"Please, I saw you; you got _down _with him! That wasn't frutting or what the hell ever—" Clint gave a crude, half-assed hip wiggle, grinning. "—that was some good old-fashioned _friction_,baby."

"I caught a look at his face, too." Darcy wagged her eyebrows. "Lucky man was in heaven—"

"It was a part of my job." Steve pursed his lips.

"Doesn't mean it wasn't fun." Clint grinned, taking another swig of his beer.

"I think you two have had plenty to drink tonight," Steve muttered.

"None of us are in any position to judge you, Steve," Natasha pointed out.

"There's nothing to judge." Steve could feel himself tensing up, and he tried to force it down. He didn't succeed. "I'm not like that."

"Whatever you say." Clint shrugged. "But I'm telling you, I do the frottata with someone, they either paid for it or I've got a soft spot for them."

"You traffic in sex, how do you not know how to use the word frottage?" Bruce laughed.

"They don't teach French in the circus, smartass," Clint grumbled.

"Wait." Bruce waved a hand to silence Clint, focusing on Steve. "I thought I recognized his name. Isn't Tony Stark the guy from the Marvel magazines? They have that special…Stark Adventures, isn't it?"

"He has a magazine?" Clint perked up, and Steve couldn't help doing so as well.

Tony had a—_damn _it, _Mr. Stark—_he had a magazine? Steve had known he was an adventurer, that he loved exploring and had been nearly all around the world; he talked about his travels often. On more than one occasion, Steve had been late back to the stage because he'd gotten so caught up in Mr. Stark's tales of Egyptian excavations, or deep-sea caverns, or treks through the Amazon. Steve could feel his curiosity bubbling up already, despite how he tried to keep it under control. Mr. Stark's stories were utterly fascinating. Magazines were usually a frivolity Steve couldn't afford, but…it was thanks to him that Steve had any money at all, it couldn't be _such _a stretch to spend a little of it on an issue or two. How could he resist? Not to mention, the magazines would give him more information about Tony—

About Mr. Stark, he meant, obviously. And only in the strict sense that more information about Mr. Stark would help Steve ascertain if his gut instincts about the man had been right, if he should be avoided. The question of whether or not that was what his gut instinct had ever been about at all was another problem entirely.

Steve picked that month's issue up the very next afternoon. He told himself he needed to get groceries anyway, but he knew full well his real goal was to duck into the corner store between home and the supermarket. He found it between a couple gossip rags and a stack of newspapers, the glossy cover shining bright: _Marvels, A Magazine of Men's Adventure. _He flipped through it, Tony's story catching his eye nearly immediately. He stayed there, leaning against the newsrack, utterly engrossed in the article, until the owner shouted at him to cough up some cash or take a hike. Steve not only bought the available issue but convinced the owner to go through the back, promising to buy any more he had. He came back with three, which would definitely mean meals at the club for a month or two, but Steve couldn't resist.

He devoured the flimsy little things within an hour, and was already itching for more.

Tony was _amazing. _Steve had known he was widely travelled, but the things he'd seen, the artifacts he'd recovered, the good he'd done…that sort of life was something Steve could have only ever have dreamed of. To be even this close to someone experiencing that kind of adventure thrilled him, but it was more than that; the articles revealed Tony in bits and pieces to Steve, and that somehow managed to interest him even more. Tony's adventurous spirit was well-documented, but there was more than that to him; he was brave and charismatic in the articles, described quite aptly as always ready with a quip, but Steve picked up on the little things, too. Things like how generous Tony could be—more than one article talked about how he donated artifacts he found instead of hoarding them, the astounding amounts he gave to charities each year, the life-saving medical technologies he'd developed at barely any cost to the hospitals that ordered them—not to mention how compassionate he was, how hard-working.

The articles got certain things wrong, though. The various authors had showed him as charismatic, which was certainly true, but they made him out to be so in a way that he came off as obnoxiously pushy and excessively salacious. Tony was certainly a flirt, and he could occasionally be a little brash with his attentions, but he'd never shown himself to be anything less than genuine at his core and most certainly a gentleman. If anything he was a romantic, always stuck on whatever starry-eyed notion suited him, with his _I'd like to know you, sweetheart _and _I pity not the fool who wins your approval, darling _and honestly, who quoted Shakespeare anyway, much less in a strip club? Only Tony. Only Tony, that hopelessly romantic fool—

Damn it.

He was calling him Tony in his head again.

But then…it was hard not to. Steve was finding it harder and harder to classify what he felt towards the man as anything even approaching dread. If anything, it was the opposite; with every page of _Marvel _he read and reread, he grew more eager to see the man himself again tonight. He wanted to ask him about the adventure from the March issue, ask him if he was really convinced of the mummy's curse, or maybe about the latest issue, see if Tony would tell him what things looked like that deep in the ocean, or about—well. He had more questions than he could count, and that was manageable. That was a nice, normal reason to want to see a man. Questions, curiosity.

It just wasn't the only reason.

Steve wasn't stupid. He didn't have to like it, but he could accept the facts when they were staring him in the face. Or smacking him in the face. Or shoving themselves down his throat. Whatever. The point was, this was all too much to just ignore. Being plagued by thoughts of Tony was one thing; that could be dismissed as dread, or concern. Instinct, like Phil had said. The inability to quit talking to him could simply be curiosity about his life; Tony had a fascinating life, and the fact that the Stark Adventures articles existed only proved that Steve clearly wasn't the only one who thought so. Rubbing himself off against Tony's hip could be impulse, could be the stresses of the job getting to him, any number of things. It was just friction, it didn't matter who it was with. Thinking of the man's hands on him later when he touched himself…

Well, that had been an accident, and he lived alone, so it wasn't as if anyone had to _know._

Still. What he couldn't quite manage to stifle was the completely overwhelming flood of warmth and affection that rose in him at each new article about Tony in the _Marvel_'s. There was a certain possessiveness to it too, a desire to hoard each new piece of information, each new photograph of the man in some exotic location with a delighted grin, all to himself. Which was ridiculous, of course, because it wasn't even _new, _the magazine had been published for years and Tony certainly had other people in his life who knew him, but Steve…well, Steve wanted to know more. A lot more. Everything more. He was aware that it didn't make sense, that it was wrong of him to even have such thoughts, and that he ought to ask Phil to have Tony banned from buying from him in the future, or to just stop engaging with him so avidly. At the very least, he definitely ought to stop touching himself to the memory of Tony's hands on his knee and the thought of how they might feel elsewhere.

He did absolutely none of these things.

"Hey, Bruce," Steve greeted, taking a seat at the bar.

"Hey, Cap." Bruce glanced over at him, then at the clock. "Shouldn't you be backstage getting changed?"

"I should." Steve nodded agreeably, leaning his elbows against the counter of the bar. He wondered how best to phrase himself. "But, first, I was wondering—you mentioned having some old copies of the Marvel magazine?"

"I think I've got a few." Bruce chuckled. "Interested?"

"If you can spare them." Steve tried his best not to look eager.

"Sure thing. How many do you want me to bring in?"

"Oh, just…" All of them. "Whatever you've got lying around."

"All the ones with Tony?" Bruce smiled at him knowingly.

"Just any you find interesting." Steve pushed away from the bar edge, hopping down off the stool.

It was one thing to maybe-sort of-possibly begin to admit to himself that he wasn't entirely right in the head. It was another to let someone else think it of him. Bruce and the others were nice, and he was usually very comfortable around them; they were the best friends he had and they all meant a lot to him, but none of them were genuinely queer. None of them were sick the way Steve was, none of them _wanted _it. How was he supposed to tell them that the dirty deed they did for money was the thing that kept Steve up and burning at night? It was a joke to them, something they laughed at over a beer. No. This was something best kept to himself.

His first set tonight was with Thor. It was short, less dancing and more posing than usual, but Steve spent most of it searching Tony out in the crowd anyway. He found him fairly quickly since, after figuring out the numbering system, Tony always tried to take one of the last tables Steve would end up at so they had more time. Tony looked even nicer than usual tonight, his suit dark and tailored perfectly, his shirt a maroon red that looked stunning on him, and he was—wait, what were those? Steve missed a step but quickly compensated, still trying to get a better look at what Tony was hiding under the table.

He barely listened to Phil rattle of the list off lap dances before he was off down the stairs, ducking and weaving through the tables, skipping over his first dances and heading right to the back. Tony was laughing at his eagerness, that much he could see, but he still couldn't quite get a good look at—no, no way_—_

"You're far too gorgeous for me to be your only dance tonight." Tony smiled at him in amusement as he approached.

"What's under the table, T—Mr. Stark?" Steve tried to look, but Tony just moved his feet.

"Dear lord, are you trying to make me feel old?" Tony laughed. "Call me Tony, sweetheart."

"Fine. Tony." Steve raised both eyebrows, glancing at him, under the table, then back at him.

"Tend to your other clients first." Tony was flat out grinning now. "I don't want you pressured for time, doll."

"What is it you—" Steve tried to sneak another peek, but Tony quickly blocked his view again.

"Go on," Tony insisted, waving him on.

"You're ridiculous," Steve pointed out, but Tony only smiled wider and shot him a wink.

Steve reluctantly went back to his first table and started the night's rotation over from the top, giving three of the quickest, lousiest lap dances he'd performed yet. Usually he'd have at least a little pride and make sure they got what they paid for, but tonight he felt like going slow or taking his time might drive him right out of his mind. The rush of warmth was back again, creeping through his veins and squeezing on his heart; those were _flowers _under that table, a bundled mix of red white and blue roses. The gesture was ridiculous, and over-the-top, and so completely Tony that Steve couldn't help being completely and utterly charmed.

"Are you out of your mind?" Steve asked when he returned. That…wasn't what he'd meant to say. Something about Tony's presence always seemed to make his mouth run in the worst directions. "You can't just get me _flowers—"_

"Oh. Guess you saw." Tony smiled sheepishly, bending down to retrieve them to offer to Steve properly, and Steve struggled to think anything except _who knew men could look adorable? _"It's cheesy, I know, but do I at least get points for sentiment?"

"I—" Steve stammered until his brain landed on, "Getting me flowers still doesn't make this a date."

"I'm aware." Tony laughed. "When I take you on a date, you'll know by the lack of half-naked people and the presence of dinner."

"I didn't—that wasn't me _agreeing _to—"

"I know, Cap." Tony winked. "Relax. Accept the flowers. No strings, I promise."

"I don't know what to do with these," Steve admitted, finally letting Tony push them into his hands.

"Most people stick them in water." Tony grinned.

"Am I supposed to just wave them around while I dance?" Steve still couldn't seem to push any form of gratitude out of his mouth. His mother would've been disappointed, but then, she wouldn't have exactly loved the way his life was going at the moment anyway.

"No dances tonight, sweetheart." Tony smiled bright. "Only came by to bring you these."

Steve's hopes fell flat.

"You don't want to talk?" The words were out before Steve could stop them, and he couldn't help an internal wince. Why was it he could only ever manage to sound rude or desperate around Tony?

Tony must've missed the pitiful note of Steve's words, because his face only lit up in a ecstatic smile. "You do?"

"Well, I…" Steve looked anywhere but at Tony. "I may have read a few of your magazines. I had a question or two, I just thought—"

"Are you quite certain I can't take you to dinner?" Tony looked so hopeful it hurt. "My adventures always seem so much grander over a glass of wine."

Steve wanted to. He could identify that desire now, feel the surge of longing and attraction for what it was. But…

"We can't." Steve shook his head, and Tony looked so horribly disappointed he felt the need to clarify. "You keep saying 'go to dinner' like we could simply _go _somewhere and not be arrested, or at the very least kicked out and have your name would be completely ruined. You'd never sell another magazine in your life—"

"Oh, no." Ton brightened immediately, sitting forward. He looked as if he itched to take Steve's hand, but restrained himself. "I didn't mean—well, it'd be lovely and in a dream world I certainly would—but I didn't mean in a restaurant, sweetheart. I know a place we could go, just you and me. What do you say?"

"I…" This was a horrible idea. A horrible, awful, terrible idea, and he ought to stop this all right now before it went any further— "I say yes."

"Fantastic!" Tony beamed at him, and Steve couldn't find it in himself to regret his answer. Not just yet. "I'll make it worth your while, darling, promise. It's only, what, five? When do you break for dinner?"

"Another two hours—"

"Perfect, that's—" Tony stood abruptly, bumping his knee against the table in his eager haste. "Ow—perfect, I mean, great. Wonderful. I'll come get you then?"

"Don't come in." Steve glanced back towards the stage. Phil was watching from somewhere, he was certain of it. "I'll meet you outside."

"Absolutely." Tony's dazed smile hadn't lessened in the slightest. "Absolutely."

"You said that twice." Steve couldn't hide a smile of his own.

"I absolutely did."


	4. Chapter 4

He might've died in Project Rebirth after all.

That, or Heaven had come found him right here on Earth. It was the only explanation for how blissfully happy Steve felt, better than he had in years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so at ease, so simply, purely _happy _in someone else's company, or even his own. Heaven had come to visit him, or he'd gone and died somewhere along the way. Steve didn't know and he didn't care; he was busy having the word _perfect _redefined to him. The world itself could've ended right then and there, and Steve wouldn't have leaned back, laughed, and asked Tony what he thought of that.

Tony. It was all because of Tony. Tony, with his impish grin and steadfast persistence, his starry-eyed notions of romanticism and connections and _I just want to know you, sweetheart _as he led Steve away from Club Shield and into the night. They'd walked four blocks to get to where they were now, an apartment building Tony had sweet-talked his way into. The doorman recognized him, apparently from a little while earlier, and told him to get lost, but Tony had spun some heart-breaking story about a sickly grandmother, a box of abandoned puppies, and a broken keychain, would he please just once more let him in? Anyone else in the world could've told the ludicrous story and had the door slammed in their face, but Tony's charm was so genuine and unabashed that Steve didn't blame the doorman in the slightest for falling for it.

Steve certainly was.

Tony had then brought Steve straight up to the roof, blocked the door behind them so they wouldn't be caught, and opened his arms wide to gesture to the setup he must've put together after leaving the club earlier. There were enough blankets laid out to make even the cold concrete of the roof comfortable to sit on, and spread across them was a wider array of food than Steve had seen in all his life. When he'd gaped, Tony had been quick to say that he wasn't trying to be extravagant, for once, but that he just wasn't certain what Steve would like. There was wine, too, a luxury Steve hadn't ever actually tasted before.

He'd been nervous at first, careful not to drink too much of the wine or get too comfortably loose-tongued, lest he reveal anything he wasn't supposed to. He watched Tony's hands, too, but Tony kept them completely to himself and never moved so much as an inch in Steve's direction; it was Steve who found himself drawn closer, winding up shoulder to shoulder with him soon enough. Phil had trained Steve to keep all personal information hidden, and the others had warned him stalkers might attempt to wriggle it out of him, but Tony seemed to know that would ruin the mood and never asked.

Instead, he asked Steve what he'd studied in school. He asked whether he preferred charcoals or paints, what styles he liked and where he took inspiration from, which became a lengthy debate about whether Pollock or O'Keeffe was a better emerging artist. This lead into jokes about the Cubism phase the French were still calling art, which lead into another debate about whether abstract expressionism, which Steve found silly and Tony found evocative, would really last as an artistic style or if it would fade out fast.

Tony just seemed so _impressed _with him, so pleased to have someone to get into these discussions with, that Steve couldn't help talking more and more. They talked their way across the board, from his education in art to his interest in history and politics, where Steve hoped he managed to impress again with his near picture perfect memory of military strategy and his own thoughts on how they could be improved. Tony, though amazed by Steve's thorough knowledge on the subject, wasn't as deeply invested in military operations. He said it hit a nerve; his father had been caught up in all that before he'd passed. Tony sought to do good all on his own, by striking out in the world and assisting where he could. This of course turned the conversation to Tony's adventures, which Steve had a million and one questions about. They could've talked about those for a hundred years and Steve still wouldn't have heard enough; Tony had such a wonderful way with words, voice smooth and confident and yet…soothing, somehow, as he regaled Steve with tales that never quite made it to the magazines.

"How could you get lost?" Steve laughed.

"Did you miss the part about bandits and map theft?" Tony chuckled.

"Well, you knew you had to go East, didn't you? It was late at night, why didn't you use the stars?"

Tony laughed, long and loud, and it was one of the best sounds Steve had ever heard. "Twelve years in private school, four at the top college in the nation, and I never once thought to look up. You're good for me, sweetheart. Could use some more common sense like yours in my operation."

"You spent six hours in the desert and _never once _thought about the stars?" Steve couldn't imagine it.

"Well, I thought of them, and they were certainly pretty to look at out in the middle of nowhere. But I can't navigate by them, so they weren't of much use to me."

"You've travelled the world, but you never learned to navigate by the stars?" Steve laughed.

"Always meant to," Tony admitted, "Never quite got around to it."

"I could teach you," Steve offered, "It's not hard. In fact, I could teach you right now."

"Then I'm glad I never learned." Tony leaned into his shoulder just a fraction, the only contact he'd initiated all night. "Teach me."'

Steve's mouth suddenly felt dry, sparks dancing under the skin of his shoulder where they were connected. "See those seven stars there?"

Tony craned his neck a bit to follow the line of Steve's arm, get a look at where he was pointing.

"The Big Dipper?"

"Right. Now, those two at the end there will point you to the North star. So follow them, like this…" Steve moved his finger along the line, Tony's eyes trailing him. "Good rule of thumb is if you take the rough distance between the two end stars on the Big Dipper, and times it by five. So five times the distance away, you find the brightest star in the sky. See it?"

"Sure do." Tony smiled softly, not looking at the sky at all.

"You're not looking," Steve pointed out, trying to remember to keep his breathing steady. Tony was close. They'd been close all night, but it was the first time Steve realized exactly how little space was left between them.

"You told me to look at the brightest star. I am."

"That." Even the slightest of movements would bring his lips to Tony's. "Is the tackiest line I've ever heard."

"The word you're looking for is romantic."

"The word I'm looking for is ridiculous."

"Do you want me to stop?"

Steve didn't so much as take a breath before answering. "No."

Silence fell between them for the first time all night, but it still held the same warm easiness their chatter had. It was a comfortable silence, a moment held perfectly still in time, and Steve was struck once again by how very _close_ Tony was. By the fact that Tony hadn't moved so much as an inch closer all night, but here they were, shoulder to shoulder, Steve's face poised just a few small inches from Tony's. He was close enough he could've counted Tony's eyelashes if he'd had the whim to. He'd moved this close. He'd wanted to _be _this close. He'd been drawn to Tony all night—since that very first moment their eyes met across the club, really—and it suddenly amazed him that he ever could've thought otherwise.

"May I kiss you?" Tony asked quietly, voice soft and gentle and demanding absolutely nothing.

"You're asking?" Steve wasn't certain if that should offend him or not. "Am I suddenly a dame?"

"Definitely not." Tony's eyes dipped down, lingering on the lines of Steve's chest and abdomen. His clothes were a little smaller than they could be; he didn't have much money to spare, and buying a whole new wardrobe after the superserum bulked him up had all but bankrupt him. "But consent isn't only for women, darling."

"So if I wanted to kiss you, I ought to ask?"

"You could if you so wanted, but my feelings on the matter have been made clear. Yours are more…opaque." Tony gave a small chuckle, brushing his hand over Steve's to give a reassuring squeeze. "Not that I mind. But I would never want to do anything to make you feel—"

Steve closed the space between them.

It was so horribly cliché, but fireworks were all that came to mind. A burst of warmth and color, spreading through him and making his lips tingle at the contact. And it was crazy, it was all completely insane to think that they could just come sit out on a rooftop and _do _something like this, but Steve wouldn't have stopped for anything in the world. It felt so good to just…touch someone, connect, even as simply as this. Tony's hand came up to cup his cheek, but it was only a brief touch and then he was moving away.

"I like a man who takes the initiative," Tony teased, but his breathless voice betrayed his surprise. Steve was pleased to have caught the seemingly imperturbable man off his guard.

"I like you," Steve admitted quietly, and Tony's expression softened.

"I was hoping you might." He smiled, sliding his hand up over the back of Steve's neck. Slowly, projecting his every move, he leaned in for another kiss.

It was…softer, the second time around. Less fireworks, more warmth. It was still simple, still chaste, and Steve could feel himself relax into it. Melt, really, sappy though the thought was. Tony still moved no closer, just rested his hand along the back of Steve's neck. Again, it was Tony who pulled away.

"Though I'm loathe to cut this short…" Tony murmured, still close enough Steve could almost feel his lips move. "I'm afraid you might be running late."

"Late where?" Did anything exist outside of this?

"I'm touched." Tony's lips quirked up. "But I recall a job of sorts?"

"Oh, God." Steve jolted back. They'd been out here _hours—_ "Oh, _God—"_

"How long is your—"

"An hour, I'm late, I am so, _so _late—"

"Go." Tony nodded his head in the direction of the door. "I'll clean up."

"I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." Tony caught his wrist with a smile, fingers somehow warm in spite of the chilly air. "I don't mind in the slightest. I had a wonderful time, Cap."

"I did too." Steve slowed. For all that he'd fought the idea, the date itself had been…indescribable. "I mean it, Tony, thank you. For everything."

"I've managed to impress you a little, then?" Tony asked, and Steve would've thought he was kidding—a _little?—_if his eyes hadn't been the epitome of sincerity.

"Best date I've ever had." He'd been on a few before, dragged along on some double-endeavor that only ever ended with both girls competing for Bucky's attention, but nothing like this. Nothing even _close_ to this. "No contest."

Tony's smile went wide at that. "Good. Good, I—it was for me, as well. I've never met anyone like you, Cap. Not in my whole life. I'd like to see you again, if—"

"Yes," Steve startled even himself with the speed and firmness of his reply. It must've shown on his face, because Tony couldn't seem to quite muffle his laugh.

"Alright then. I'll drop by."

Steve only narrowly stopped himself from asking _tomorrow? _and instead said, "It's a date, then."

"Sure is," Tony agreed, the look in his eyes warm and pleased.

He tugged Steve close enough to kiss his cheek, then released his wrist and started cleaning up the leftovers. Steve lingered a moment, until Tony flashed him a knowing smile over his shoulder. Steve resisted the urge to blush, beating a quick retreat down the stairs, beaming like a giddy fool all the while.

He was going to get fired, and he couldn't even bring himself to care.

He entered the club through the back, jimmying the door the way Clint had taught him. He headed up the stairs and took a sharp right, into the dressing room. He barely took two steps in before Phil appeared out from behind the curtains.

"And where have you been?"

Steve jumped. "Phil! Sorry, I just—I lost track of time."

"Three hours is an exceptionally long time to eat dinner, Captain."

"I'm, uh. I'm a hearty eater." Steve scratched the back of his head awkwardly. Funny, now that he thought of it, he couldn't really recall touching much of the food. He'd been too busy talking. "Sorry. It won't happen again, I promise."

"See to it that it doesn't." Phil seemed to be finished, but he hesitated, adding after a moment, "Our clients are more charming than most, but that doesn't change their motives. People aren't always who they seem, Steve. Try to remember that."

Steve was reminded of the look Phil had given him when he'd gotten a little too excited the other night.

"Do you know him?" Steve asked hesitantly. Phil clearly knew precisely who he'd been out with, if not the specifics. Phil pursed his lips, seeming unsure how much to say.

"He only became a regular recently, but I know the type. We all do. It's a byproduct of working in this business. He's rich and he's convincing, and everything in his life has come easily to him because of it; it's why he finds the chase appealing, and the catch dissatisfying. We're not heartless, Steve. We understand what it's like to get…caught up. But no one wants to see you hurt, either." Steve fell silent, and Phil stepped away. "You've got a half hour until the next show. Change, warm up. You'll do set twelve with Clint and Natasha."

Steve nodded mutely, and Phil exited the room.

Could it all really be just a chase? A catch-me-if-you-can? Steve wanted desperately to believe in the kindness he'd seen in Tony, but…wasn't that what Phil was trying to tell him? Tony was more than just convincing, he was brilliant and tenacious and remarkably charming; the doorman had been a prime example. The man had fallen so easily for a story he had to have known was false, because Tony had made him want to believe. Couldn't Tony be doing the same with him? Tony's charm was all but blinding when he wanted it to be, and he was certainly intuitive enough to know what to say and do to win Steve over. He'd been doing it since minute one, hadn't he? With all his _I'd just like to know you_'s and his _no need to dance, let's just have a chat, sweetheart_'s, and his flowers and his dinner and his wonderful, simple, addictive kiss…

Steve was such a Goddamn fool.

And it hurt, it hurt more than just about anything Steve had ever experienced, to fall so hard so fast from the blinding hope of earlier to the aching disappointment constricting in his chest. What had he even been thinking? That some rich adventurer had just felt like waltzing into his life, sweeping him off his feet for a nice chat and a kiss on the cheek? Of course not. Of _course _not, God, he wasn't even a fool, he was just a full on idiot. He knew what Tony wanted. He should've known all along what Tony wanted. The question was what to do about it. If what Tony was after was the chase, he was unlikely to go away purely because Steve asked him to. On the other hand, Steve wasn't sure if he had the heart to keep being around Tony knowing he just wanted to use him, either. If what Phil said was true, though…there _was _one way to end it.

He finished what was left of his shift, then threw on an extra two hours with the next shiftees before calling it quits. Afterwards, he headed back to the bar and sought out Jane. He kept his chin up, eyes steady, and tried to will his heartbeat to a reasonable speed. People did this all the time, here especially.

"I see you about raising my limits, don't I?"

Both of Jane's eyebrows shot up. "You're raising?"

It was just sex.

"Depends. Can I raise only for certain clients?"

"For one client, you mean." Jane eyed him.

"Well." Steve tried his best to look unperturbed. It was _just sex_. "Yes."

"Look." Jane leaned over, keeping her voice down. "This isn't any of my business, and if you want to raise your limits, I'm not going to stop you. But you should consider your reasoning. If you're doing this to hold on to him, you're going about it the wrong way—"

"Trying to do the exact opposite, actually." Steve pointedly looked away. Sex was nothing. People did it all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Boredom, even. "Just…take off the limits, for him. Let him order whatever it is he wants."

Jane cocked an eyebrow dubiously. "If he's harassing you, getting him banned from the premises seems like a bit of a better plan than sleeping with him."

"He's not harassing me." Steve took a breath. He liked Jane. They weren't close, but they were friendly. "I'm just…I'm over the game. I don't mind dancing. There are days I even enjoy it to a certain extent, but this…false romancing, it's…" _Heart-breaking._ "Confusing."

Jane examined him for a moment. "And you're certain it's false?"

No. "Yes."

"I'll mark you down." Jane sighed. "But you'll have to talk to Nick if you're going to jump brackets like this."

"Brackets?"

"Limit brackets. There's three, dancing, touching, and sexual acts, and you just jumped from one to three. That warrants a chat with the boss." Jane pointed him out, sitting in the back at his usual table.

"Right." Steve slid off the barstool. "And I just tell him…?"

"Just say you're raising to bracket three for individual clients." She smiled at him, and it was horribly pitying. "Won't take more than a minute or two. If you haven't noticed, he's not the chatty type."

"Great." Steve slid off the barstool. "Thanks."

He didn't need pity. That sort of look was exactly why he needed to stop Tony's game in the first place. It was messing with his head. And his heart, but that was secondary. At least, that was what he was trying to tell himself.

_It was just sex._

"Nick, do you have a moment?" Steve asked as he approached, and Nick waved for him to take a seat. They'd only talked twice since his hiring, and it had been in passing.

"What do you need?" Nick didn't look up from his paperwork.

"Jane said to inform you I'm jumping brackets. One to three for individual clients," Steve repeated verbatim. Nick put down his pen and looked at him.

"You're jumping to three?"

"Yes sir." Steve nodded firmly.

"Tony Stark, right?" Nick narrowed his eyes. "That's your individual client?"

"So far. I'll add more as I work up a repertoire with them." He wanted it to be true, but he knew he was lying through his teeth.

"Right." Nick picked his pen back up, returned his attention to his work. "Don't bother. You need a front for this month, you got it. You're a good kid, and we don't need anything more from you just yet. Enjoy the dances while you can."

"I don't need a front." Steve shook his head. "I just think I'm ready to—"

"Everyone gets behind sometimes. It's fine."

"No, I'm not late. I—I could just use the extra," Steve lied.

Well, it wasn't much of a lie, he could _always _use extra money. It just wasn't the whole truth. The uglier truth. Jane he liked, Jane he could give more of a reason to; it felt strange and unnecessary to tell his boss that he'd like to sleep with someone to see if they'd grow bored of him. It didn't even sound right in his head.

Nick gave a deep, annoyed sigh. He put the pen back down, and folded his hands on the table. "Phil tells me you're a virgin."

"I—he—_what?" _Steve stammered, completely and utterly thrown for a loop, "We've never talked about anything that would even remotely indicate—"

"He doesn't need to ask." Nick shook his head. "And he's never wrong. You need money, I'll front you money. Don't do shit you'll regret on my watch."

"I'm not a child." Anger sparked, and Steve, like the stubborn idiot he was, stood his ground. "It's my body and I damn well know what I'm doing with it. I'm telling you I want to earn a little more and I mean it, so next time he's in just let him buy whatever the hell it is he wants to buy."

Nick stared him down impassively. There was a brief moment where Steve thought he might've just gotten himself fired.

"This is not a fucking dating service, kid." Nick drew himself up, eyed Steve shrewdly. "You're gonna have sex with that man for money, and he ain't gonna call you. He may not even come back, if you're not good enough. If you are good enough, he's not gonna ask about your real name, not gonna take care of you, not gonna hold your fucking hand. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want as long as they pay me, but you come crying to me after this little pissing contest and I'll fire your ass so fast it'll make your head spin. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir." Steve nodded, jaw clenched tight. He wasn't a Goddamn idiot.

Nick flicked a hand to dismiss him.

* * *

Tony was on a high.

A brilliant, beautiful high, and that high had a name and a face, a Cap name and a gorgeous face. Okay, Cap was obviously not his real name, but a false name was such a silly little thing to concern himself with. Cap would tell him his name when he was ready, somewhere down the line. Once he trusted Tony the way Tony wanted, the way he'd work for. Could it even be called work? Could something so utterly, fantastically enjoyable be called work? Certainly not. He knew the Captain found his lines cheesy—if perhaps, hopefully, boyishly charming—but he meant them. He really had never met anyone quite like him, anyone that shined quite that bright. Cap was…indescribable, truly. He'd fancied the man before, but this was nothing like he'd ever experienced. He'd been on dates, he'd been on innumerable, _enjoyable _dates, with men and women alike.

Nothing compared.

Tony was just over the moon. He felt like he'd inhaled helium, like the slightest little thing could send him flying off into the sky; euphoric was really the only word for it, and all because he'd gotten a _kiss. _He felt like a child again, a silly little boy tugging pigtails, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Of course he'd been kissed. He'd kissed women and men, kissed chastely and passionately, kissed nearly everywhere in the world.

Nothing compared.

Something about the Captain's kiss was _special. _Cap kissed like a promise. Cap kissed to show affection instead of to chase pleasure, something Tony himself had been more than guilty of in the past. Cap's earnest voice telling him so plaintively, so sweetly, _I like you, _had somehow been even was irrational of him, of course, it was _all_ quite ludicrously irrational, but Tony would happily be irrational about Cap for the rest of his days. It had only been one date, but he knew Cap was the one for him.

Etiquette suggested a week between dates, but Tony found himself yearning to race right back to the club, an addict seeking a fix. Waiting until tomorrow alone seemed eons away. He cleared the rooftop within the hour, gathering the leftovers in the picnic basket he'd stashed away behind the stairwell and rolling the blankets up before taking the half-empty bottle of wine and sitting along the edge. Cap really knew his stars. To Tony it was all little more than a pretty blur, but he'd certainly be a willing student if Cap would be his teacher. Come to think of it, Cap himself would make a wonderful constellation. Tony ought to buy him one. But then, he didn't think Cap would like it quite as much as he would. Cap didn't seem the material type. No, Cap was substance over style, the type who liked meaningful gestures and good intentions and special moments, all of which were things Tony would be more than happy to provide for him, would bend over backwards to give him if it was what he desired.

He sighed. The thought of going back to the club right this very moment flickered through his mind again, but he knew that'd be far too tacky for even Cap to find charming. He'd have to settle for tomorrow, then. One was supposed to wait a week, but it wasn't as if their courtship thus far had been particularly traditional. They'd met in a strip club, for Christ's sake. Still…Cap deserved to be wooed the right way. Tony ought to wait. He could wait. He sighed again, swirling the bottle before downing the last of it.

_Could _did not equal _wanted to._

He didn't actually wait quite a week, but what sane person could blame him? The Captain was enchanting, was Tony's match in every measure, was clever in mind and tongue and the most lovely conversationalist Tony had ever had the pleasure of sharing company with. It was ridiculous how often Tony thought of him in the four days he managed to hold out, how the desire just to see Cap again wrenched at him.

And alright, he might've been acting a little silly in the meantime, but he couldn't help it. He was over the moon. Everything about the Captain made him silly, made him cheesy and ridiculous and love-loopy. Love. It had to be love. Tony would be convinced of nothing else, no matter how Rhodey rolled his eyes or Jarvis sighed or how Pepper commented on the effect of loose women on the single male. She didn't know what she was talking about, of course, just knew that Tony was seeing someone and that Rhodey had made a comment about whorehouses being the new pickup spot. Tony was hesitant to tell her anything more, as he was still getting a feel for her. She'd only just become his writer a few months ago, and though she seemed like the understanding type, he knew there were more dissenters of his lifestyle choices than there were supporters. He'd learned his lesson quite well over the years, and was as cautious with his secret as he ought to be.

Still, he'd at least corrected one of her assumptions; his Captain was _not _loose. He danced, that was all. Put on a show. He needed the money, that much Tony had gathered, but he wasn't some wild harlot, he was a man doing his best in a tight situation and Tony could only admire his perseverance. That, and tip him highly. He'd tried to go higher, but the cashier already looked at him funny.

Regardless of the others' obnoxious assumptions and clearly faulty judgment calls, Tony knew this wasn't another hasty decision. He knew he'd been an easy sell for a pretty pair of legs in the past, but Cap was different. Tony just…knew. There weren't words for the simple, pleasant coziness between them when they were alone, the warmth that pooled in his stomach when he so much as caught Cap's eyes, the way his heart stuttered when he earned himself a precious smile; he just _knew._

He could admit he'd been a little hasty in the beginning, jumping right in based on nothing more than the look in Cap's eyes, but he felt justified now. He'd gone on a real, true and pure, no two shakes about it _date _with the man, and a long one at that. A man didn't dawdle on a date he didn't enjoy, now did he? Cap had clearly enjoyed himself, enough to forget his time constriction. There was something between them. It was undeniable.

All said, was it really all that bad if he only waited four days instead of seven?

Of course not, he assured himself as he checked his coat at the door of club. Cap would be happy to see him. He'd looked more than eager for a second date by the end of their first, surely Tony wouldn't be unwelcome. He took a seat at the farthest table he could, gift in hand. He didn't bother hiding it away like the flowers; this one was wrapped.

Cap didn't come on until the third set, by which point Tony was becoming horribly antsy. He smiled—well, it was perhaps more of a beaming grin than a simple smile, but he hadn't seen the man in near to a week, alright, he'd missed him—the minute he caught sight of the red white and blue sweetheart. Cap caught his gaze briefly, dropped it, then caught it again with a weak, false one of his own. Tony's smile immediately dropped.

Shit, he knew he should've waited a week.

Rhodey had _told _him this would happen. He always did this, always moved too fast and fucked things up and got so goddamn clingy. One good date—alright, it was fucking wonderful, no one in their right mind could think otherwise—did not mean the Captain would want to see him every minute of every day. Honestly. When would he learn? He considered leaving, but it seemed horribly cowardly. He decided in the end to stay, if only to give Cap the gift, then take his timely exit and not return for _at least _two weeks like the sane and slow-moving person he could, on occasion, be.

Cap didn't come by his table.

Now Tony was just confused. Perhaps he was moving fast, but he still didn't see why Cap wouldn't at least come say hello, or, at the very worst, come tell him to leave. The Captain was an honest man, and a very straightforward one; Tony couldn't see any reason he wouldn't be upfront about it if he genuinely wanted Tony to leave. How many times had Tony assured him that if Cap asked, he would leave immediately and never return? The absolute last thing he'd wanted was for Cap to feel harassed, and he thought he'd accomplished that. Perhaps Cap's supervisors had read him the riot act after his missed shift? Perhaps Tony needed to pay for his presence, or Cap couldn't approach him anymore? Surely, that was it. He signaled for a runner.

"Captain America?" His usual runner, Darcy, seemed to be absent tonight. Someone new approached him, a brunette with the tag Jane. She was regarding him oddly; if he wasn't mistaken, there was a touch of something close to distaste in her expression.

"Always." Tony flashed her a smile, hoping to ease the tension. "Thank you."

"What do you want from him?" Her tone was flat, a touch sharp, and her words were certainly quite direct.

"Well." Tony paused briefly, because though he hadn't expected to be interrogated about his intentions by the wait staff, he was entirely unsurprised that Cap was friends with probably everyone in the building. He chuckled. "I enjoy his company."

"I know that." Her annoyance was once again written in her face. "I'm asking what you're ordering."

"Sorry?" Tony frowned, heart sinking in his chest. "I thought he only offered lap dances."

"He did until four days ago," Jane informed him crisply, and Tony's frown deepened because, no, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. "Then he opened up all his slots."

Tony's mouth went dry. Hurt was the first thing he felt, clear and sharp and unexpected, followed quickly by twin stabs of anger and jealousy that rolled right into the bitter disappointment that he didn't even have the right to feel either. Disappointment didn't last long; within the space of a few seconds, he'd boomeranged right back to a hurt that shot through his veins like venom.

"That can't be right," he heard himself say.

"Didn't think you'd talk him into it so soon, did you?" Jane muttered, though there was a glimpse of regret in her eyes that assured him she hadn't meant to say so out loud, "I apologi—"

"I didn't talk him into anything," Tony insisted, "I didn't say a _word—"_

"Sir, I'd rather not argue with you." Jane flashed him possibly the falsest smile he'd seen in all his life. "He opened these slots for you. Are you going to use them, or not?"

Her voice clearly asked if he was going to use Cap, not the slots, but he was stuck on something else.

"For me?" Tony asked—well, more demanded—insistently, hope bubbling up. "Not for anyone else?"

Jane paused a moment, clearly debating if he was being sarcastic or if he was simply an idiot. He didn't care.

"No," she answered eventually, "They're client-based slots. General clients can only order his lap dances."

Tony knew precisely what was going through that man's head. It was nothing short of stupid and utterly ridiculous, but it was so much better than Cap simply deciding he'd rather sleep with half of New York than go out with with Tony that he couldn't help beaming again.

"You've got back rooms, don't you? How long can I book one?"

"All night." Jane all but spat it out. Tony only narrowly resisted the urge to laugh at how wrong she had him.

"Sign me up."


	5. Chapter 5

He might've been moping, just a little.

Tony hadn't come to the club once in the past four days. The rational, sane part of Steve was grateful for that; it meant he wouldn't have to go through with the rest of it. But…Steve clearly wasn't cut out to be a rational, sane person, because no matter what he told himself, he still couldn't help missing Tony horribly. He'd wanted the false romancing to end, but he could admit that he'd enjoyed it while it had lasted. More than enjoyed it, he knew; he'd fallen for it. Hook line and sinker, like the complete and utter fool he was. He was on break for Christ's sake, and he was still reading his favorite of the Marvel's articles again. He knew the article itself by heart, but it had a full-color, glossy picture of Tony in the Amazons, grinning wide, machete in his hand and challenge in his eyes.

"The way you stare at that picture, I'm starting to think it talks to you when I'm not around." Clint snorted, and Steve startled. He hadn't realized Clint had entered the dressing room.

"Of course not." Steve flicked the magazine closed and set it aside. "It's just an interesting article."

"I'm sure the tenth read reveals a lot of new information." Clint grinned.

"Just because you don't like to read doesn't mean I can't."

"Yeah. Reading. _That's _what you like."

"Lay off," Steve said, but it held no heat.

"Phil's sorry," Clint blurted, and Steve glanced back up. It was so out of left field he could only stare.

"What?"

"He won't say it, because he's Phil." Clint rolled his eyes. "But he's sorry. If he'd have known you were going to pointlessly and stupidly sacrifice your virginity—"

"Why does everyone _know_ that?" Steve groaned, mortified. "And it's not as if he's a volcano god, it's not a 'sacrifice'.It's a just a business deal. Why do you all keep trying to talk me out of this?"

Clint was the first to take the "Phil's sorry" angle, but he wasn't by any means the first to attempt to talk Steve out of his plan. If he were less stubborn, he might've let them. As it was, he'd dug his grave and he'd damn well lie in it.

"You get a sense for it, working places like these." Clint waved his embarrassment off. "Phil's the best, but we've all got it. I call it the sexth sense. More importantly, yeah, Stark's a wild card and he might be using you, but…Phil said you looked all glowy and shit when you got back. You had a good time, right? Maybe it wasn't fake. What if it wasn't?"

"I don't want to talk about this." Steve started to get up, but Clint planted both hands on Steve's shoulders and pushed him back down.

"Why not?"

"I just—I don't, Hawkeye." Steve shrugged his hands away, but didn't move to get up again. He was growing more uncomfortable the longer this conversation went on; he didn't like talking about this with the others. They didn't get it.

"How can you still think we care about that?"

"Phil said to use stage names at all times when in the clu—"

"Not the name, you idiot." Clint looked like he wanted to smack him. "Stark. Men. Loving them."

Steve stood up immediately, shouldering Clint out of the way. "I said I don't want to talk about this."

"You give us zero credit, you know that?" Clint frowned. "It's pretty fucking insulting, Steve."

"What do you want me to say?" Steve sighed.

"I want you to trust us a little, dick." Clint punched him in the shoulder. "You've been working here for months now. Why do you still think we're the kind of assholes that are gonna make fun of you for liking this guy? That's what places like this are _for, _to get a little deviant, have a little fun. Loosen up already, it's not like we're going to judge you."

"You say that." Steve clenched his fists. He wasn't mad with Clint, exactly, he just—he didn't _understand. _"You say that, because it's a game to you. Because it's 'fun' for you to—to 'get deviant'—"

"Don't twist my words around, I didn't mean it like—"

"Clint, you _get _deviant. I…" His mouth felt impossibly dry and his heart pounded in his chest loud enough it reverberated in his ears, but he spat it out anyway. "I _am _deviant. This isn't—isn't an act, and it sure as hell isn't a joke. I want it to be. I wish it was. You think I don't wish I was like you? You think I don't want to laugh about 'those kinds', about how weird and strange they are for wanting what they want? I spent all of puberty telling myself it was weird and strange, that I was joking, that my mind wasn't turning back to it every time I let it wander. I had myself _convinced, _until _he_ walked in here and I—I tried to shove it down but it didn't work because he just—he made it okay. He made me feel normal for a little while, made me feel comfortable with myself for the first time in my life, and it turned out to be a lie. I finally felt good about myself, and it was a _lie._ How in the hell am I supposed to even _explain _that to you, to _any _of you, when you feel comfortable in your own skin every minute of every day?"

Clint was, for the first time Steve could recall, completely speechless. Steve didn't wait around for him to find words. He turned to leave, but Clint practically launched himself between Steve and the door.

"You don't have to explain." Clint held both hands up, as if to physically shove Steve back if he tried to push his way through. "I didn't—shit, Steve, we've been shitty friends, okay, but look, we just—we don't just walk up to newbies and announce this kind of stuff, you know? Sometimes people come through and they don't stay, sometimes they're straight and they think they can handle the work anyway but can't get over their homophobia, whatever. So we don't put it in the flyer, or anything, but we'll all—okay, not all, Jane's straight, and Bruce and Betty are a thing—but we're pretty fluid about this stuff, it's why we've lasted here."

"Fluid?" Steve frowned, confused.

"I can be clearer than this, I swear, you're just giving me flashbacks and it's kind of fucking me up—"

"Flashbacks?"

"I went through the same bullshit thoughts about myself you did. I'd say we all did, but Natasha is basically allergic to the concept of self-doubt and I don't know who dropped Thor on his head as a kid but I swear the guy doesn't even understand what gender is. But. I went through this shit. Okay? I did, and I get it, Steve, I swear I get it. You feel—sick, and worthless, and like you're going a little crazy because you can't even control your own thoughts anymore, and you want to be fixed but you don't, and you don't even understand why you don't, you just…you want to be you, but you want to be better, too, and you just…you feel crazy. But we're not crazy, Steve. I promise. Whether Stark's really interested or not doesn't make you any less normal. You're normal and good and whole,just the way you are." Clint paused. "If I hugged you right now, would that be too sappy?"

Steve drew Clint in and hugged him tight instead of answering.

He tried to pretend his voice didn't waver when he finally said, "Thank you."

"Anytime, Steve." Clint smiled when Steve released him. It was one of the few times he'd seen Clint smile instead of grin. "You should cancel your limit raise."

Steve was too surprised not to laugh. "Right back to business, huh?"

"Because you're going to regret it," Clint insisted, "I know what I'm talking about. You don't want that to be your first experience, there's too many emotions tied up in it. You just wanna lose it, raise for all and let a random have a go. You wanna lose it with someone special, wait until you know you're special to them too. Anything in between is gonna be shitty."

"I can handle it."

"I'm not saying you can't. I'm saying you're going to wish you hadn't, and there's an easy way to avoid that."

"I appreciate it, Clint." Steve glanced away. "But I need to know."

"Asking doesn't work for you?"

"If he's been lying this far, wouldn't he just keep doing so?" Steve sighed.

Clint eyed him a moment, before conceding with a shrug. "You're gonna do what you're gonna do. Just don't be an idiot about it, alright? Come talk to me after."

"What, looking for gory details?" Steve teased.

"Nah, we'll just gab." Clint grinned, clasping a hand to his shoulder. "I'll be in strictly emotional-support-mode, promise. I won't even ask how much he's packing."

"Packing?" Steve quirked his head, confused.

"_Packing." _Clint wagged his eyebrows with a bit of a hip thrust, and Steve turned scarlet.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." Clint winked. "The rich ones usually have tiny pricks, if that helps with the nerves."

"I have no idea how to feel about that."

"Don't let him tell you that means he doesn't need lube though," Clint advised, "They always wanna pull that shit, don't let him slide by. Or there won't be much 'sliding' involved at all—"

"Clint." Steve rubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed. "Please stop."

"Don't you want advice?"

"I'm trying not to think about it."

"Feeling the jitters?"

"I think I might be all jitters," Steve admitted.

"Don't worry," Clint assured, "It'll be fine. Just remember three things: there's no such thing as too much lube your first time, no glove means no love, and the slower you go the better it'll be. Also, bring out the husky voice once or twice, he'll go nuts for that."

"Thanks," Steve managed to mumble out. He was grateful, but that didn't make talking about the technicalities of it any less mortifying. "I'm going to go now."

"Yeah, yeah." Clint laughed, clapped him on the back as he moved past him. "Just remember you can come talk to me."

"He's probably not even coming back," Steve tried, though he couldn't be entirely certain who he was trying to convince.

He was back.

He was definitely back, mysteriously gift-wrapped box in hand as he caught Steve's eyes through the crowd. Steve was caught off guard, both by his presence and the light of his smile; four days gone by, and it was as if nothing had changed at all. Steve tried to smile back, but Tony immediately looked concerned by it. Unable to maintain eye contact and focus at the same time, Steve avoided his gaze the rest of the set. Once he finished, he listened for Phil to rattle off Tony's table number; he didn't. Steve tried to puzzle out what that meant, but couldn't come to any lasting conclusions. During the next set, he couldn't quite manage to keep his eyes off Tony. He wasn't sure how to feel about the clear confusion and distress that played across Tony's face, though. He caught sight of Tony signaling Jane, and could pinpoint the precise moment she told him the slots had been opened; what he couldn't understand was what Tony's expression at that meant. More was said between the two, and when Jane walked away, she looked disgusted and Tony looked delighted. Steve felt his hopes plummet, a wave of hurt crashing low in his gut. Well. He'd wanted an answer, hadn't he?

Now he had one.

"Four dances and a back room," Phil informed him crisply as he exited the stage. There was no hint of the regret Clint had told him of, but then, Phil was the picture of professional. "4D, 17A, 22A, 32B. Midnight Room. Do you remember the—"

"Yes." Steve hadn't meant to interrupt, he was just already getting nervous. "Sorry. I just—yes."

When he'd upped his limits, Phil had given him the rundown of the different rooms, the prices for them and the services expected from each one. Midnight room was the most expensive, with no specified rules or limitations. Just thinking about it made his pulse quicken. Unfortunately, it felt more like an on-coming panic attack than excitement or lust. He should've prepared better for this, should've anticipated it. He should've at least asked Clint for more advice. If he'd been really smart, he'd have asked Clint for a more technical explanation of it all, no matter how embarrassing the results would've surely been. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how completely unprepared he was, which of course only terrified him more.

He couldn't recall a single thing about any of his four dances. He tried to linger, tried to make them last as long as he could—his clients certainly seemed appreciative—but he knew he couldn't stay out on the floor forever. Tony had already been escorted to the back; he could only postpone another few moments before things started to appear strange.

Each step closer to the room sent his heart farther up his throat. He could barely breathe by the time his hand landed on the doorknob, and he forced himself to stop. Inhale. Hold it. Count to ten. Exhale. Open the door. Aaand open the door. Hand on the knob. Twist. Pull. Not that hard. He could do it. He managed to get himself together long enough to open the stupid door, and found himself just as unprepared to deal with what was waiting for him.

Tony had stripped off his tie but nothing else, and was lounging on the bed with the kind of easy, comfortable casualty one could only be born with. He fiddled with the gift, turning it over in his hands impatiently until he caught sight of the door opening, at which point he jolted up and stood to meet Steve eagerly.

"Hey there, Cap." Tony beamed, waving the present in one hand. "Got you a little something."

"I can see that." Steve eyed it cautiously. "You didn't have to."

"Of course not, but I wanted to." Tony extended it to him, still smiling. He looked so genuine, so _happy…_it was an aching sort of painful to see Tony look at him that way. "You'll like it. Trust me."

"I don't doubt it." Steve accepted it gingerly, still unsure. "I just don't know if it's entirely appropriate."

"I'm paying for a room, I can't pay for a gift?" Tony shrugged him off easily, still bouncing a little. "Go on, open it."

Steve bit his lip, but could find no further argument. Tony rolled up on the balls of his feet, watching eagerly as Steve undid the bow and stripped away the paper. Inside was a gray box, and he opened it to reveal a tin of charcoals and a leather-bound moleskine art journal, the kind Steve had only seen the richest of his peers toting in college. The closest he'd ever come to one was the girl who'd sat ahead of him in Pencil and Charcoal 202. He'd forgotten his own cornerstore-brand cardboard one at home one day, and she'd ripped a piece of paper from hers for him to use. Even the paper had felt luxurious. He paged through it now, rubbing his fingers over the smooth, velvety sheets.

"Speechless?" Tony looked immensely pleased.

"I—Tony, this is—I can't imagine how much this cost—"

"Don't think about that." Tony insisted, taking his hands and closing them over the notebook. Warmth immediately surged through to his fingertips at the touch. "Think about how it feels. Do you like it? Will it work for your sketches? Do you need a larger one, or more charcoals?"

"I haven't really sketched in a while—" Steve tried to redirect, but Tony wasn't having it.

"I know, but you said you loved it, you just didn't have the materials. This should work, shouldn't it? The clerk said it was the best kit they had but I only went to a few stores, I could look into other—"

"No, no, it's—" Steve stumbled over what he could possibly say. "This is amazing, Tony. I'd always hoped to get my hands on one of these, but…I mean, are you sure?"

"Sure of what?" Tony laughed. "That I want to give you things? Sweetheart, name it and it's yours."

"No, no, I don't need anything," Steve rushed to assure, "This is wonderful. Really…really wonderful. Thank you, Tony."

He could already feel the emotions of that night on the rooftop rushing back, easy to give in to and far too familiar. He could use that. He crouched down to put the box on the floor, and he caught sight of Tony opening his mouth, confused and likely about to ask why, but he leaned in and kissed him before he could say anything else. Tony stumbled back briefly in surprise but Steve went after him, dug his hands into Tony's shirt and pulled him close. Tony seemed to hesitate a moment, but then settled into it and his hands came to rest softly on Steve's waist. Steve began maneuvering them back towards the bed, mission-minded and focused now. He could do this. He just had to stay in control, had to stop thinking about how wonderfully sweet Tony's kiss was, about how the feel of his hands on Steve's waist was warm and steadying in a way Steve could get used to, about how—no. No, he needed to focus, he needed to direct Tony to the bed and get this done with so Tony would get out of his _head._

He pushed Tony back onto the bed with perhaps a touch more force than necessary; Tony looked startled, but more intrigued by it than anything else. Steve followed shortly, crawling over him and bending down for another fervent kiss. His only warning was the playful spark in Tony's eyes just before he closed his own, then there was a leg hooked over his thigh and he was tumbling to the side. Tony flipped them expertly, straddling Steve in a way that could only be described as luxurious; he wasn't up on all fours, rather, stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, nestled between Steve's legs comfortably. His kiss slowed, more lazy than lustful, and the pace had changed so fast Steve was surprised he didn't have whiplash.

He couldn't help giving in to it. Just for a moment, he told himself, but they stayed that way far longer than just a moment. How was he supposed to resist? Tony radiated a kind of comfort Steve had never experienced before, a kind that made him feel safe and happy and—and—_loved _was the only word for it, and Steve didn't have the wherewithal at the moment to protest it. He'd already forgotten why he was even there in the first place; he was already back on that rooftop, Tony's lovely voice filling his ears with tales of adventure and his eyes dancing with interest every time Steve spoke and his hands so warm in Steve's despite the cold night air. Tony's hand caressed over his cheek, and for all that it was only his face, the touch could be described as nothing but intimate.

"You liked the gift, I take it?" Tony teased with a soft smile.

"I liked it very much." Steve tried to recollect his thoughts. Why were they here again? "But I—that's not why I kissed you."

"I'd hope not." Tony pressed one along his jaw with a little laugh. "Or I might worry about how you respond to people on your birthday. Or heaven forbid Christmas."

"No, I mean—" Sex. They were here because Tony had paid for sex. "I kissed you because you paid for it."

"It had nothing to do with how devilishly handsome I am?" Tony only chuckled, pressing more kisses under his jaw, along his neck.

"No, well, I mean, that's not why—"

"You're a hard one to impress, darling." Tony hummed, sucking just a hint on Steve's neck. The rasp of Tony's teeth shot through him like electricity, reverberating in his chest and pooling low in his groin. "I thought I'd put myself together quite nicely for you tonight."

"I—I didn't say—" Steve stuttered over his words as Tony pressed a kiss over the bite mark. "Didn't say you _weren't, _I just said that's not why. You paid for this."

"Oh, well." Tony's voice sounded oddly, teasingly indulgent. He pressed a kiss just under Steve's jaw, butterfly soft. "Are you ready, then?"

"I want it," he assured instead, careful to keep his voice steady.

"Debatable," Tony murmured into the crook of Steve's neck, kisses still soft and gentle, "But also not what I asked."

Steve wasn't some flighty little girl, fragile and breakable. Yes, it might hurt, and yes, he might be a little terrified, but this wasn't some love affair. This was his job. This was what Tony had paid for. He didn't have the right to say anything but,

"Yes."

"Hm." Tony didn't quite sit back so much as he leaned a little to make eye contact. Steve held it as long as he could manage, chin up, defiant.

"What's your name, honey?" Tony asked at last. Steve tried not to let it show on his face just how much the question unbalanced him.

"I'm not supposed to tell you that." Steve frowned. Shouldn't Tony know that?

"Just the first," Tony implored, "I can hardly hunt you down with only a first name, can I?"

"I…suppose." Steve wasn't certain why it mattered anyway, but all the _sweetheart _and _darling _was…confusing. Maybe giving Tony a name to work with would help. "It's Steve."

As soon as it left his mouth, he realized he could've said his name was anything in the world, and Tony would have believed him.

Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, _idiot_—

"Steve." Tony only smiled at him, soft and sweet. Maybe it made him even more of a fool, but he suddenly didn't quite mind his mistake. "You look very much like a Steve."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Of course." Tony pressed a kiss along his shoulder. "It's a strong name. You wear it well."

"I'm not wearing much of anything, at the moment," Steve told him dryly. Tony laughed.

"No, I suppose not."

"So, how do, uh." Steve attempted to make his voice husky like Clint suggested, but he just felt ridiculous. He tried again. "How do you want it?"

"Well, I suppose I could tug those panties of yours down and slam right in, hm?" Tony looked smooth and nonchalant for all of three seconds, before his poker face broke and he burst into laughter. "Good _lord, _your face!"

"I wasn't making a face, that's—if that's what you paid for—" Steve stammered to make up ground, but Tony refused to stop laughing. It was humiliating, and Steve was becoming indignant. "Would you stop laughing?"

"I—you just—you looked so _horrified—" _Tony continued to laugh, burying his face in Steve's chest to muffle the sound. His huffed laughter was warm against Steve's chest, and the scratch of his goatee tickled for a moment before Tony's laughter finally petered out and he looked up with a too-pleased grin. "So, you've never done this before."

"The concept isn't difficult to grasp." Steve set his jaw. "I'll be fine."

"Well, I don't want you to be fine." Tony stroked a thumb along the line of his cheek, the amusement in his eyes replaced with fondness. "You ought to enjoy yourself."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" Tony ducked his head enough to press a kiss to Steve's lips, far too tenderly. "I'd like it to be."

"But you're the one paying to—"

"Precisely." Tony silenced him with another kiss. Steve really ought to protest that, but couldn't quite bring himself to. "I paid. Don't I get what I want?"

"I'm_ trying_ to give you what you want," Steve replied, frustrated. This had all seemed so much easier in theory.

"No, you're trying to get me laid," Tony corrected with an amused grin, "Which, while always appreciated, is not what I want at the moment."

"Fine," Steve conceded to the lunatic, "What _do _you want?"

"Did you grow up in New York?" As always, Tony switched tracks quick as a blink.

"I'm _definitely _not supposed to answer that." Steve sighed.

"I'm not asking for your boyhood address. Just generally."

"Still not supposed to answer that."

"Still curious." Tony nipped at his collarbone. Steve did his best not to shiver.

"Ah…" God Almighty, he was weak. "Brooklyn."

"I knew it." Tony shot him a brilliantly triumphant look. "I knew I heard a twang."

"I don't twang_." _Steve scowled up at him.

"Oh, love." Tony leaned down enough to give him another kiss, horribly brief. "Not the puppy dog pout, please."

"I didn't pout," Steve protested. That had been a _scowl._

"Whatever you say, darling." Tony only smiled at him.

"You know my name," Steve reminded him, "You don't need to call me things like that."

"I have a sickness," Tony admitted, "I called a good friend pumpkinbutt once, he didn't speak to me for a week."

Steve couldn't help a laugh, and Tony looked horribly proud of himself. He moved to kiss Steve again, lingering for considerably longer this time. He brought one hand up to cup Steve's face, and he absently leaned into the touch. Tony encouraged it with another hand and a little nip at Steve's lip. It was Steve who deepened the kiss, but Tony somehow remained in control, keeping it slow and sweet. It was nice. Too nice. Steve rapidly forgot the purpose of the night again, and when he remembered, he pulled back abruptly.

"You paid for _sex _with me. We should—"

"Not precisely." Tony contradicted him almost absently, paying more attention to the kisses he was now lavishing along Steve's neck than his words, as if Steve was somehow being ridiculous and not worth his full attention. "Did pay. Wasn't what I wanted though."

A nasty emotion shot through Steve, some strange, miserable combination of disappointment and humiliation. "Who did you want?"

Tony's play at idle listening ended immediately, and he surged up to kiss Steve with enough passion to make him dizzy, leave him breathless and reeling.

"You." Tony only parted to catch Steve's eyes, still close enough Steve could feel the warmth of his breath. "I want only you, Steve, don't mistake me."

"You said—"

"I said this." Tony waved a hand at the room. "Wasn't what I wanted. Not you."

"A different room?"

"I wanted another date with you." Tony's gaze softened as his mouth turned down, a twist of something Steve could only identify as hurt there. "I like you, Steve. You don't seem to believe me, and I suppose the conditions under which we met make your suspicion understandable, but I thought—I've never felt closer to someone than I felt with you then. I tend to be more romantic than sensible, I know that, but I thought you felt the same. I came here to see you because it's where you're comfortable seeing me and I bought the room because it meant time with you, but I'm not after a simple night of pleasure, or even a string of them. I think of you more often than not, and I miss your company fiercely when I can't have it; you make me happy, Steve, in a way I'm certain I've never felt before. But if you don't feel the same—"

Steve couldn't listen to another word. Relief and joy and something terrifyingly close to love shot through him faster than he could contain, so he wrapped both arms tight around Tony and kissed him, kissed and kissed and _kissed _him until when they broke apart it wasn't for a breath of air but a gasp of it.

"I admit," Tony panted with an amused shake of his head, "I never know quite what to expect from you."

"I think you like it."

"I'm certain I do," Tony agreed with a smile, pulling him in for another kiss.

"I'd like to keep you," Steve murmured when they parted. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, and it was a touch nonsensical to begin with, but he blamed the current lack of oxygen to his brain. Tony didn't seem to mind.

"I'd be your kept man any day of the week, darling," Tony promised. Steve laughed, and he insisted, "I mean it. And I'm very handy to have about, you know. Good with mechanical things, electrical items. I even wash my own dishes. Most times. Well, every once in a while. I've done it at least once, I'm certain—"

Steve kissed him silent. "I like you just as you are, Tony. Whether or not you do dishes."

"I don't get a speech?" Tony attempted to look put out, but the pleased grin stretching wide across his face ruined the effect he was going for. "Well, that's just not fair."

"I misjudged you," Steve told him. He wasn't sure if he had a _speech _in him, or anything with a particular direction, but he at least owed Tony a bit of an apology. Tony fell silent as he spoke. "I didn't want to like you. I wasn't comfortable with what that meant about me, but you…you made that melt away. I've never felt more comfortable with anyone than I do with you. I got a little lost in how that felt, I think, so when Phil reminded me I should maybe try to keep a level head about things, I felt like…like maybe if I was wrong about you, then maybe I could be wrong about the rest of it, too. About me, about it not being sick after all, and I just…panicked."

Tony nestled closer briefly, long enough to press a kiss to Steve's temple before leaning back enough to sit up. "It's okay, sweetheart."

"I must seem like the most indecisive man alive." Steve sighed, sitting up as well.

He was struck momentarily by how ridiculous they looked; him in his stage clothes, all red white and blue corsets and garters, shimmering thin stockings and thinner thong, Tony dressed to the nines in an exquisitely tailored business suit. Steve really hadn't had much of a chance to admire how handsome Tony looked before he'd, well. Tried to speed things along. He ran a hand over the shoulder of it now, admiring the tailoring of it, how it was cut precisely to Tony's lithe form.

"You seem like a man who wants to be sure. Nothing wrong with that," Tony assured. He took Steve's free hand, played with his fingers a moment before linking them together. "I'd like you to do something for me, if you wouldn't mind."

"Anything," the promise slipped out before Steve could think about it too hard, but he didn't take it back.

"Would you care to draw me?" Tony's gaze darted back to the abandoned art supplies on the floor. It meant he missed the rise of willing enthusiasm on Steve's face, and he continued as if he had to convince him. "It's a little silly, but I'd like it very much if I could be the first thing you added to that book."

"It's a lot silly," Steve corrected with faux serious sigh. Tony turned back to him questioningly, but his expression eased into a smile when he saw Steve was teasing. "But I suppose I could indulge you."

Steve all but bounced off the bed; he sketched mostly on napkins these days, but he'd be lying if he said Tony hadn't made it onto more than a few. He was beyond eager to try his hand with real, quality materials. He retrieved the box from the floor and turned back to Tony, who'd struck a ridiculous pose, one hand under his chin, the other bracketing his cocked hips. Steve laughed, and Tony relaxed with a laugh of his own.

"How do you want me?"

He wanted to sketch Tony organically, while he did something that might occupy him enough that he'd forget Steve's presence, but he knew it'd be impossible under these conditions. Tony wasn't one to stay still long, and there wasn't anything available to them in the room besides a bed, a sidetable, and closet of things Steve had been informed about but wasn't going near. He'd just have to do something rough, then.

"Sit back against those pillows." Steve nodded at them. "However you'd normally sit."

"Can I look at you, or am I to pretend you're not here?"

"You can look if you'd like," Steve said absently, rejoining Tony on the bed.

He placed the tin of charcoals carefully beside him, then unbound the notebook. The pages had enough give to them that they'd take pencil and charcoal well, while remaining strong enough to be unlikely to tear without a very good tug. He'd have to be careful with it; his superstrength could still escape his notice at times. He resolved to treat it preciously. He smoothed a hand over the first page, resisting the urge to bring it up to his nose. He'd always loved the smell of a fresh notebook.

"If I bring you more, do you think you might perhaps consider looking at me the way you're looking at that?" Tony teased, but the smile on his face spoke to how genuinely pleased he was that Steve liked his gift.

Steve glanced up at him, trying to express as much fondness as he possibly could with a single look. He must've succeeded, because Tony brightened shyly and the back of his neck went a little pink. If Steve could've preserved any look of Tony's, he'd have liked it to be that one. There was, of course, no chance of getting him to hold it. Tony was already trying to play it off, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck and babbling.

"Great, so, you like the notebook, obviously, that's great, and me, which is even better, honestly, I was little worried about that briefly, but, um, you seem to have made up your mind here so I'm going to just lie back like instructed and stop moving, and talking, you probably need me to stop talking—"

"You can talk." Steve smiled. "Besides, I like listening to you. You talk, I'll draw, how about that?"

"Good deal." Tony seemed to drink in his smile like it gave him energy, and he took a deep breath before launching into his next segue. "I can do that, no problem. What do you want me to talk about?"

"Anything." Steve gave a slight shrug, then admitted, "You."

"Me?"

"You've told me about your adventures, and they're certainly interesting. But I'd like to hear more about you." Steve picked through the tin of charcoals to find the one he'd like to use, glancing up with a flicker of a smile. "Man behind the Marvel's, and all that. If that's alright?"

"Of course." Tony seemed surprised, but open. He relaxed back into the pillows, a thoughtful look on his face. "Where to begin?"


	6. Chapter 6

Steve meant to stay silent, but conversations with Tony simply didn't work that way. It was impossible not to be drawn in, and before Tony even made it past the utter disaster that had been his tenth birthday—it involved a delivery mix-up and, to Steve's stunned disbelief, a live giraffe—Steve's art lay forgotten and they were both side by side on the pillows, each propped up to face the other as they chattered away like they'd known each other all their lives.

Tony started haltingly, seeming a little unsure where to begin when the story wasn't about chasing down some priceless artifact or battling Nazi's, but he quickly found his footing. He told Steve about growing up in Stark Mansion, touched on his father's disappearance when he was young and his mother's subsequent depression, but lingered mostly on his butler and confidante, Jarvis', steady presence, and the wild stories he'd collected as a young, brilliant, and very bored boy. He even said he'd introduce Steve to Jarvis sometime, if Steve promised not to believe all of Jarvis' stories because they were clearly lies meant to make Tony look bad.

He asked if Steve had gotten up to any trouble of his own, and Steve admitted he hadn't really been in any position to. He elaborated a little about how he'd grown up, how they'd never been very well off but that after his father's death his mother had worked to the bone since Steve had always been sickly and in need of some medicine or another. He didn't want to feel pitiable and tried to play it off, but Tony didn't let him, just listened quietly with a level of focus and care Steve wasn't sure what to do with. In the end, he talked a lot more about his mother than he'd expected; probably more than he had in all the years since she'd passed. He missed her. Tony understood. He curled in a little closer and took Steve's hands while he talked, gave him something to hold onto.

The topic shifted from his mother to how he'd fared without her, and he admitted he had a bit of record as far as back alleys were concerned. He put it as best he could, an inability to leave an injustice alone and his tendency to go to blows over it, since he could admit there was a part of him still trying to impress Tony. He couldn't bring himself to care, because it made Tony laugh and that was all that mattered. He told him all about Bucky, too, about how he always used to come to the rescue back when Steve had been nothing more than skin, bone, and tenacity.

"Hard to imagine, I'll admit." Tony cocked his head, trying to picture it.

"I was roughly ninety pounds back then, if you'd dumped a bucket of water on me first," Steve admitted. Tony laughed, but there was a kindness to it, a shared humor instead of a mocking one. Steve felt himself immeasurably relieved, enough to continue. "About four foot at best, too. Real string bean kinda guy. Head bigger'n my shoulders."

"Tell me you have pictures," Tony implored.

"Oh, that's—" Steve tried to will down his blush. "I don't think _that's _necessary—"

"So you do, then!" Tony beamed. "You _have _to let me see them, they're a crucial part of my education."

"What education?" Steve laughed.

"I'm offended, Steven. I'm deeply devoted to my studies."

"Studies?" Steve raised an amused eyebrow.

"Of you, obviously." Tony grinned.

"Obviously." Steve rolled his eyes.

"I," Tony declared, "Am a _scientist. _It's for science, Steve, you can't object._"_

"I thought you were an adventurer," Steve teased.

"That too," Tony conceded, "But I was a scientist first."

That led into Tony's years at MIT, where he'd apparently been quite well-known. He was a genius with anything mechanical or electrical, and much younger than his peers; though Tony didn't say so directly, Steve got the impression he'd found it isolating. Tony hadn't mentioned many childhood friends, either, and Steve's heart ached a little at the thought of a young, bright-eyed Tony, full of sunny enthusiasm, entering school with the expectation of finally finding peers, equals who could share in his brilliance, and instead being left to himself again.

Tony already knew what Steve's year and a half of college had been like; he'd enjoyed his time, for all that he'd wished to be out fighting in the war more. They talked then about their lives afterwards, and Tony told him that though he'd taken up the mantle of StarkIndustries, running a business had never really felt satisfying. Steve asked how he'd transitioned to working for the Marvel's magazine, and Tony paused.

"You don't have to tell me everything right this moment." Steve quickly backtracked, sensing a sore sport. "Or at all, if you don't want to—"

"No. No, I want to." Tony sat up decisively, and began unbuttoning his dress shirt. "But I think it's something better shown."

"Alright." Steve scooted up as well to watch, captivated, as Tony continued. The display of tanned skin made his mouth go dry, and he was so distracted he nearly missed the blue, effervescent glow emanating from the left side of Tony's chest. "What is…?"

"I've got a bit of a heart problem." Tony tugged his shirt to the side, revealing a circle of blue roughly the size of a fist directly over his heart, clearly mechanical in nature. "A complication from my youth that became exacerbated after college. I came up with this nifty little thing to keep me alive. I call it an arc reactor."

"May I?" Steve's hand drifted closer, though he managed to stop himself, wait for Tony's consent. Tony nodded. Steve touched his fingers to it lightly; it was cool and sheer, and the cover felt like glass. Tony's breathing hitched. Steve immediately jerked his hand back. "Sorry, does it hurt?"

"No, no," Tony assured, "I just…I'm not used to it being touched. Bit of an intimacy thing."

"Sorry—"

"It's fine." Tony clasped his hand again, directed it back over the arc reactor. "I mean it. Touch away. It's orichalcum-powered now—a not-so-mythical Atlantean material I recovered recently—very stable. It used run on electricity, but having to recharge every few hours was a bit of a hassle."

"Recharge?" Steve questioned, feeling out the edges of it. They were smooth, rounded, and there was minimal scarring along where it met Tony's skin.

"I used to have to plug it up to a generator." Tony tapped the cover. "Bit like a car battery. Incredible annoyance."

"What happened if you didn't recharge it?"

Tony rubbed the back of his neck with a bit of an awkward laugh. "There's really no off-hand way to say 'possible death', is there?"

"Death?" Steve repeated dumbly, eyes wide.

"Well, but now it's orichalcum, like I said, so. No charging!" Tony was trying to be cheery, but Steve was still distressed by the idea that should this…orichalcum…fail, Tony would just _die._ "It's still built to take a charge in an emergency, too, so it's really nothing to worry about, Steve."

"Sure." He swallowed. "Electrical device powering your heart. Possible death in case of failure. What's there to worry about?"

"It's okay. I'll be okay, sweetheart, please don't freak out—"

"I'm not freaking out, who's freaking out?" Was it just him, or did his voice sound strange?

"You are, a little." Tony laughed, leaning in enough to kiss him softly. "Breathe."

"I'm breathing."

"Breathe slower." Tony laughed again, squeezing his arm. "There you go."

"It's stable?" Steve checked again.

"Very stable," Tony assured.

"I can't believe you were off running around the world in that condition." Steve shook his head with a sigh, though he could completely believe it. Tony was impulsive at best.

"Had to find a better power source somehow." Tony shrugged with an impish grin that said he knew perfectly well what Steve thought of him and reveled in it. "Besides, it got me out of business. I couldn't believe what I'd been missing out there; best thing that ever happened to me, honestly. Opened my eyes, and all that. You know, you're not really one to argue about risks, Mr. I Got Four 4-Fs But Became a Soldier Anyway."

"Six," Steve admitted, both embarrassed and a little proud at once.

"So that's what happened to the little guy, huh?" Tony smiled wryly, squeezing his bicep teasingly. "The army got their hands on you and whipped you into a soldier?"

"I wasn't really one." Steve glanced down. "Not for long, anyway. And not the way I'd have liked."

Tony immediately picked up on Steve's genuine disappointment, and dropped his teasing. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." Steve's eyes drifted to the still loosened folds of Tony's shirt, the soft blue glow visible within now that he knew to look for it. "There's something I ought to tell you about that, actually."

"Oh?"

"Thing is, they let me in conditionally." Steve wasn't entirely certain how to go about explaining what had happened to him; it felt like something out of a moving picture, or a comic book, and he'd never had to actually put it into words before. He'd in fact been explicitly ordered not to. But then, he'd never been a particularly good soldier anyway. "They thought I had potential for something the SSR was working on."

"You participated in the Strategic Scientific Reserve?" Tony paused, concerned recognition dawning. "Last rumor I heard said they were flirting with human experimentation."

"They were. Are. I'm not sure what they're up to now, but they experimented on me." Tony's eyebrows leapt up. "With my consent. Dr. Eskine, the man who developed the formula they were testing? He was the one who recruited me. He asked me how far I'd be willing to go, and I would've begged for it, honestly. I wanted so badly to be a soldier. And they made me one."

"Define…made you." A curious little furrow appeared between Tony's eyes.

"There were a series of injections, and I heard something about vita-rays," Steve said vaguely, unsure of the specifics of the science behind it, "They locked me in this…metal coffin of sorts for a little while. Lot of needles. It, uh. Well. Hurt like fucking hell, I can tell you that much. But when I went in, you could've knocked me over with a paper bag. I came out like this."

"Uh…" Tony eyed him, clearly unsure what to do with that information. "Exactly how long were you in there?"

"No more than a minute or two." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "I know, it sounds weird and a little crazy—"

"A little?" Tony chuckled.

"It's true, I promise," Steve insisted, though he knew Tony wasn't doubting him so much as he was simply still trying to sort it out in his mind. It'd taken Steve weeks to come to terms with everything he'd gone through, the ways it had changed him. "I can show you."

"Show me what?"

"It didn't just make me taller." Steve couldn't help a bit of a grin, admittedly eager to show off for Tony a little. He'd never shown anyone the extent of what he could do before. "Wanna see something neat?"

"Sure."

Steve slid off the bed, crouching down to get a handle on the frame of it. Tony peered over the edge curiously.

"Relax." Steve smiled up at him, then lifted the whole thing right up.

Tony whooped in surprise, arms pinwheeling wildly as he fell back onto the pillows. He laid there a moment, mouth open in stunned shock, before he shot up with a excited holler of, "_Holy shit!"_

"Neat, huh?" Steve beamed, proud that he'd managed to impress him.

"What…how…" Tony's mouth still hung open, and he closed it, swallowed, then opened it again. "What did they _give _you?"

"They called it the supersoldier serum." Steve put the bed back down, careful not to jostle Tony too much. "I'm the only successful product."

He joined Tony back on the bed and Tony immediately moved forward, started to run his hands all over Steve's muscles, his arms and shoulders and chest, poking and prodding curiously. Steve would have been flattered, but it wasn't sexual in nature; he could practically see the scientist in Tony lighting up.

"Are they still trying to get it to work? Why were you the only success story? What was the difference between subjects? Do you know the other subjects?" Tony looked like he was bursting with another hundred questions, so Steve quickly cut him off to answer a few dutifully.

"Dr. Erskine was killed and the formula lost, so the project was cancelled. I don't know why it worked on me. The only other subject I know of is supposed to be a Nazi leader, so we don't exactly chat."

"Fascinating," Tony murmured, trying and failing to fit his hands around Steve's bicep, "How much can you lift? How fast can you run? What's your dexterity like?"

"A lot, very fast, and I'm not sure how to qualify that."

"Sorry." Tony finally seemed to realize what he was doing, and pulled back to rub a hand over his face in embarrassment. "I went all science-vision for a minute there, I'm sorry."

"It's fine, you're curious. It's cute." The word slipped out before Steve could think about it, and when he realized what he'd said, he blushed. Tony just leaned a little closer with an amused smirk.

"Cute, huh?"

"Very cute." Might as well stand by it. It was certainly true. He wound his fingers through Tony's, tugged him closer for a long, lazy kiss.

"Not half bad yourself, sweetheart," Tony teased. Steve paused a moment, bit his lip.

"Could I ask you something?"

"Anything," Tony promised, scooting closer.

"What would you call this?" Steve wasn't certain how any of this was supposed to go; he could only ask and hope. "Us?"

"I know what I'd like to call it." Tony glanced at their interlocked hands wistfully, a touch of the vulnerability from before returning to his eyes. "But I tend to rush into things, and the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable again—"

"So let's rush in together, then," Steve told him impulsively. He'd tried so hard for so long to fight what he felt, and it had only ever seemed to hurt. The idea of simply letting himself fall instead, of embracing it, suddenly appealed to him more than he could put into words. He could do that with Tony, he knew he could. He trusted him. "Let's call it love."

Tony looked startled, but wonderfully pleased. He surged forward, clasping a hand behind the back of Steve's head and kissing him enough with sincerity and passion Steve could absolutely burst with it.

"Let's call it love." Tony smiled softly, fingers tangling and stroking through the short hairs along the nape of Steve's neck. "Have I mentioned never knowing quite what to expect from you?"

"You might have." Steve leaned into his touch automatically, warmed by the tenderness of the gesture.

"Well, have I mentioned loving it?" Tony bumped their noses then kissed him again, like an impulse he couldn't quite resist.

"I don't believe so," Steve teased.

"Because I do." Tony's thumb was doing that reassuring-circles thing that seemed to be habit. "Very much."

"You do seem to rather enjoy being surprised."

"What can I say? I like to keep things interesting." Tony's hand came down from behind Steve's neck, taking his hands instead.

"I'm not sure I could imagine your life as anything less," Steve admitted. Their fingers were entwined again now, and he played with Tony's fingers almost absently while he talked.

"Having an affair with a superhuman is new for me, darling, I assure you." Tony smiled wryly.

"Superhuman, huh?" Steve mused. He'd never thought of it like that.

"You're certainly something." Tony shook his head with a chuckle. "Honestly, all you need is a mask, and I'll have my very own superhero."

"I'm not sure about _that." _Steve rolled his eyes.

"This must be a thousand pounds." Tony patted the bed insistently. "And you lifted it like a feather! What more do you need?"

"To be a superhero?" Steve considered the question with faux seriousness. "A cape. I don't have a cape, I can't possibly be considered a proper superhero."

"Then I'll simply have to buy you a cape," Tony promised decisively, "Problem solved. You're officially my superhero."

"I don't think superheroes are supposed to be kept men," Steve teased.

"You're not my kept man." Tony scoffed, the notion ridiculous. "You're my lover and I'm going to shower you with gifts, it's completely different."

"Lover, huh?" Steve paused, chewing the word over in his mind.

The word had…connotations to it, ones Steve had been too busy reveling in the perfection that was the night to really consider. He _did_ love Tony; he'd known it to be absolutely true the moment he'd said it. He meant it with all his heart, but that didn't mean he wasn't still hesitant about what came afterwards. He liked kissing Tony. Kissing Tony was easy and pleasurable, was all but instinct. He could do it quite literally with his eyes closed. Beyond that…Steve had never gone beyond that. He wasn't some innocent flower—never stood a chance at it growing up around Bucky Barnes—but this particular _kind _of intimacy wasn't one he'd ever really learned about. Bucky had never had any interest in it, and Steve had sure as hell never asked.

There was a growing thread of want present, Steve knew that. He felt it when Tony's beard scratched at his cheek a certain way, when his teeth had scraped even lightly over his neck, when his hands went just the right amount of tight in his hair. He wanted Tony, he didn't doubt that. He could feel the thrum of desire like a second heartbeat, clenching in his chest and leaving him breathless. He'd always wanted to know what that felt like, to touch and be touched that way by another man—that had been his problem from the very beginning, hadn't it?—and Tony only amplified that. It wasn't wanting that was the problem. It was that the concept was still so utterly _daunting, _hard to even wrap his head around, and Steve didn't feel ready to tackle it yet.

His nerves must've shown on his face, because Tony made a small sound that might've been a laugh before he quickly cut himself off and squeezed Steve's hands reassuringly.

"Nothing's changed, sweetheart. I'm in no rush. I can use a different word if you'd prefer?"

"No, that's fine." Steve shook his head; it wasn't the word that bothered him. "Have you done this before?"

"Yes and no. I've been with a man, but never in a sense that mattered. I was…" Tony glanced down at their connected hands, hesitant in a way Steve hadn't seen before. "Well. I was lonely. No two ways around that. I was lonely and rich and it was very easy to tell myself they were after what I wanted them to be after."

"You haven't been in love before?" It was petty and awful of him, but Steve couldn't help feeling a little pleased. It wasn't that he was happy Tony had been lonely, of course not—the thought of it alone made his heart ache—but the idea that maybe this wasn't all old hand to Tony, that maybe Steve could thrill him a little too…it was nice.

"I thought maybe, a handful of times, but it was more want for it on my part than actual emotion. Nothing ever came of it anyway, particularly since the last one I considered it for shot my chronicler and double-crossed me twice." Tony was clearly attempting full disclosure, but his lips quirked up when he caught Steve's eyes again. "In retrospect, it's actually rather humorous that I ever could've thought that to be this."

"Back up a moment." Steve frowned. "_Shot your chronicler?"_

"I'm attracted to people of strong wills. It has, I suppose unsurprisingly, backfired terribly often."

"Certainly one way to put it."

"What of you?" Tony implored, "I've caught on that you're a bit gun-shy, but have you at least had feelings for someone before?"

"Once." Steve thought of Bucky, with his proud grin and bright eyes, never prouder and never brighter than when he'd come home with his acceptance slip for the 107th. "Never mentioned it aloud. I didn't even think about it all that much, honestly. No lady was ever interested in givin' me a chance, why would a fella be?"

Tony's eyes sparked. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"You don't have to say that," Steve dismissed him, "You never saw me. I was a real shrimp."

He wasn't looking for pity, or the rote old _appearances don't matter to me. _It didn't matter whether or not Tony would've looked at him twice back then. They hadn't met back then. They'd met as they'd met, and Tony loved him here and now. That was what mattered, wasn't it? Tony didn't seem to think so, because he raised his hands to cup Steve's face and draw him in for a fervent, determined kiss.

"Then I would've loved a shrimp," he informed Steve decisively. There wasn't a trace of doubt in his eyes. "You could've looked like anything in the world when we first met and I still would've tumbled head over heels for you faster than one of those new roadsters, don't you doubt it. The muscles are rather shiny and apparently more useful than they appear, but I met your eyes just once and I saw the world in them, Steve, and—and then you gave me the look you're giving me now, like I was the damnedest fool you'd ever met but that I might also be the most intriguing. I can't imagine ever passing by those eyes, not in this lifetime or any after."

"You _are _the damnedest fool I've ever met," Steve assured him, caressing a thumb over the stubble of Tony's cheek fondly, "But I suppose it's about time I admit it's probably my favorite thing about you."

"Then I suppose it's about time I admit I knew all along." Tony smiled. "Though, I'm not certain I could pin down a favorite thing about you. It's possibly the little wrinkle you get above your nose when you're about to tell me I'm wrong, but it might also be the way you snort when I can get you to laugh hard enough."

"Wrinkles and the way I snort? Really, Tony?"

"Nah. Well, yeah, I love those too, obviously, but." Tony's lips quirked up. "You're going to give me the _you ridiculous sap _look again, but my favorite thing about you is that you're genuine. What I see is what I get with you, and I love what I see. Not the shiny muscles or the handsome face but what I see _in _you, the person you are and the person you make me want to be and the future you make me want enough to throw what little caution I ever had right to the wind. Look, see, there it is, I knew I'd get the face—"

Tony was effectively stopped from further gloating when Steve grabbed his shirt and just about kissed the life right out of him. Damn tried, that was for sure.

"I wish I was better with words," Steve lamented, "You always seem to know how to say precisely what I feel."

"Well, what you lack in eloquence you sure make up in enthusiasm." Tony laughed, tried to catch his breath.

"I—" Steve was cut off halfway through his thought by a yawn that surprised them both. "I sure try."

"You're tired." Tony winced. "I'm sorry. Your shift's usually over by now, isn't it?"

Long, long over. They'd been talking for _ages; _Steve wouldn't be surprised if the sun was up. He was utterly exhausted, but didn't care in the least. He just smiled and took Tony's hands again. Tony had wonderful hands; he couldn't wait to draw them. "Usually."

"Sorry," Tony repeated with sincerity, "I keep strange hours, often stay up for days before crashing. I forget normal people are more scheduled."

"Who says I'm normal? Maybe superhumans don't need sleep." He hoped so. Anything to draw out the night. Steve ran his thumb over the small, light curve of a scar on Tony's knuckle. "What's the story here?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Tony said with an air of faux casualty, but it was all spark and daring in his eyes; he was eager to tell it, he was just waiting for Steve to say,

"Try me."

It wasn't long until Steve fell asleep. He remembered the story—Tony's stories leaned towards the outrageous and tended to be hard to forget—but his memories after that were fuzzy and blurred around the edges. The last thing he could recall was the fond warmth in Tony's voice as he bid him an amused goodnight.

* * *

Tony woke to the feeling of eyes on him. He cracked one of his own open; he was indeed being watched, by a rather adorable Steve who was now blushing at having been caught staring. Tony groaned pitiably and closed his eyes again.

"It's not morning, is it?"

"I'd say so," Steve replied, sounding far too chipper, "Though there's not exactly a clock in here."

"Ugh." Tony made another mildly inhuman noise before rolling closer to Steve and burying his face in the other man's chest. Mm, comfy. "Wake me when it's afternoon."

"You aren't much of a morning person, are you?" Steve laughed, but brought his arms around Tony instead of moving him.

"Oh, no," Tony moaned, "_You _are, aren't you?"

"Little bit," Steve admitted guiltily.

"Christ, I bet you sing in the shower and everything."

"Not _every _time."

"I knew you couldn't be perfect."

"Deal-breaker, then?" Steve laughed.

"Absolutely," Tony confirmed, wriggling closer, "How am I supposed to be with someone who _sings _in the _mornings?"_

"Your loss," Steve told him in what Tony recognized as his trying-to-be-innocent-but-secretly-totally-up-to-something voice, "I'm a _very _good singer."

"Are you now?" Tony cracked an eye open to peer up at him dubiously.

"If your heart goes bumpety-bump," Steve began, voice wobbly and crooning and about as on-key as a bag of yowling cats, and Tony made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Steve grinned but kept going. "It's love, love, love. If your throat comes up with a lump—"

"It's love, love, love," Tony chimed in, though he was certainly no singer himself. Steve's returning smile was more than enough reward.

"Mm, bit pitchy there," Steve teased.

"Better than your caterwauling," Tony retorted, stealing a kiss because could and he wanted to and it was love, love, love indeed.

They both had morning breath, Steve's hair was disastrous, and Tony's favorite suit was in complete disarray; he noticed none of it, lost instead in the best lazy good morning kiss he'd ever experienced. It was long and indulgent and absolutely perfect. Steve's hair looked sexier like this anyway.

"I can't believe you slept in that." Steve eyed Tony's sleep-rumpled suit when they parted. "Isn't that bad for it?"

"It'll be last season in a few months anyway." Tony waved his concern off dismissively. He glanced to where he'd left his tie, still safely folded up on the bedside table. "The tie'll be fine, that's the important thing."

"Oh?" Steve raised an amused eyebrow.

"Pepper got it for me, she'd murder me if I ruined it. Just the right side of terrifying, that one." Tony got a hand in Steve's delightfully chaotic hair. "Promise me something utterly strange?"

"Of course," Steve replied immediately, and Tony felt so achingly fond of him he could burst with it.

"Don't let anyone else muss up your hair."

"Oh." Steve made an interesting face, hands going up to start fixing it. "That bad?"

"Of course not." Tony batted his hands away and returned it to its natural state of disarray himself. "But you look delicious, and I'm not certain the rest of the world could remain as virtuous as I."

Steve licked his lips with a bit of a proud little smirk. "I'm starting to think you just like mussin' me up."

"Starting to?" Tony grinned and used the hand he had in Steve's hair to tug him into another kiss.

The bang on the door startled them both.

"Time to clear out!" a voice Tony didn't recognize called.

"Oh my God." Steve seemed to though, because he turned bright red and buried his face into Tony's shoulder. "I completely forgot about him. He's going to be insufferable after this."

"Who?" Tony had been about to gather his things, but abandoned that in favor of closing his arms around Steve instead.

"That's—he's my co-worker." Steve sighed. "He tried to tell me you might have decent intentions and I didn't want to listen. He's going to gloat for ages."

"I can put on a show as I leave, if you like." Tony laughed. "Talk about what a great bang you were while stroking my goatee with my best maniacal laugh. Might get me kicked out though."

Steve laughed, but shook his head. "There's no point, I'm just going to have to tell him anyway."

"He's a friend?"

"Yeah." Steve nodded, almost a little surprised by it. "Yeah, I guess he really is. You'd actually get on very well with him, I'd bet."

"You'll have to introduce me then."

"I'm not so certain you two becoming friends would be good for anyone involved." Steve snorted. "But I will, if he's alright with it. Identities are a bit of a…thing, here."

"What, are you all superhumans?" Tony teased, "I'm starting to feel a bit left out, merely mortal as it were."

"You." Steve kissed him easy as breathing now, and oh how Tony reveled in that. "Are _merely _nothing."

"Out of time is what I am, darling." Tony pulled back, because Steve kissed like a dying man and a few more of those and he wasn't certain he could remain quite as virtuous as promised.

"Until next time?" Steve squeezed his hand once before letting go, moving off the bed.

"How presumptuous would it be of me to return tomorrow?" Tony asked. It was needy and childish of him, but if Steve was alright letting him forgo his manners, he'd gladly return every single day.

"Horribly presumptuous," Steve told him seriously, but there was the spark of mischief in his eyes Tony recognized and loved, "I'm not sure I can see you twice in one week, we don't have nearly enough to talk about."

"Tomorrow, then." He leaned across for one last kiss. Steve acquiesced to him easily, eagerly even, and Tony could taste the happy smile on his lips. God, how he loved this man.

"Tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

Clint took one look at him and burst into a cat-like grin.

"So I was totally right."

"You don't know that," Steve informed him, trying his best to the keep the completely ludicrous smile off his face. He failed. Horribly. It was wonderful.

"Bullshit I don't," Clint said cheerily, gesturing Steve into his apartment, "You look like you swallowed the sun."

"What?"

"You're glowing, dumbass." Clint wrangled an arm around his neck. "So I was right like always and he's totally into you, yeah?"

"Into me…" Steve mused over the words, playing at thoughtfulness, "Would like to see me…is in love with me…"

"Jesus H Christ."

"Too fast?" Steve winced.

"Would you care if I said yes?"

Steve paused, because honestly… "Not really."

"Then no, sunshine, it's not too fast." Clint ruffled his hair. "Alright, no more putting it off. You're going to sit your ass down on that couch, I'm to get us some beers, and you're going to _emote _for an hour about the guy who turned you into Smiles McGee and I will offer my unwavering emotional support while you spill your happy sunshine rainbow guts."

"Do I look that happy?" Steve asked, but even as he said it he could feel the smile threatening to burst off his face.

"Happier." Clint dismissed him, digging into his fridge. "Don't ask stupid questions. Now, _after _an hour, you can leave or you can tell me whatever sexy little tricks he's got up his sleeve that clearly blew your brain right out your ears, because I can only restrain my curiosity about that for so long."

"Er. Right." Steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"What?" Clint examined him as he passed him an open beer. "Was it bad? It'll get better, especially if you love the guy and all, you'll find your rhythm—"

"No, I—we didn't. Do anything. I mean, we kissed, but. We didn't have sex."

Clint stared at him. "You were in there until nine this morning."

"We were talking."

"For _twelve hours?"_

"Eleven." Steve squirmed a little under Clint's incredulous stare. "And we slept. Some."

"Some."

"Some," Steve confirmed.

"I don't know what to do with you," Clint said at last, collapsing beside Steve on the couch, "I really don't."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I have no fucking idea what you're doing in this business." Clint rolled his eyes. "Don't get me wrong, glad I met you and all that shit, but Christ."

"I'm managing just fine." Steve frowned. He didn't like the implication that just because Tony was special—amazing and different and wonderful—Steve was somehow was unable to do his job in the meantime.

"I'm not saying you're not," Clint corrected, "I'm just saying this is so clearly not your world. I've been here five years, and I don't think I could tell you anything about my clients besides what they want to hear in bed and their sexual preferences. Maybe some hair colors."

"It's the same for me," Steve insisted, "Aside from him."

"Sure, Steve." Clint grinned, taking a swig of beer. "Your hour of sappy emotional support is ticking down, you know."

"Oh. So, he's the most amazing person I've ever met, for one. He's kind and funny and so—he's so charming, but not in a manipulative way? I mean, he could easily use it that way but he doesn't, he just uses it to make people feel at ease. I feel comfortable around him, more so than with anyone. I'm a hooker for Christ's sake, but instead of making me feel young and stupid and like I'm stumbling around making poor decisions, he just seems to think it's a rough patch, that I'll work it out. This isn't all I am, and he _knows _that, he sees me for who I am beyond this, and I don't know how he does it but I spent the night in a _thong _and I still managed to feel comfortable because the way he talks—have you heard his voice? He has a wonderful voice—he's just so…uh…you're looking at me strangely, what did I say?"

"Nothing," Clint assured, "Well, you said a lot, but I'm just marveling at the fact that I don't think I've heard you talk this much or this fast since we met."

"You told me to," Steve pointed out, doing his best to keep the petulance out of his voice.

"No, no, I did. It's fine." Clint shot him a thoughtful look. "I think I kinda get why he's into you, if this is what you're like when he's around."

"What do you mean?" Steve frowned. "Am I different?"

"Nah." Clint shook his head. "Just…happier. It's a good thing."

"Alright." Steve couldn't help another smile. Clint grinned and squeezed his cheeks.

"There it is!"

"Shut up," Steve tried for a grumble, but it was hard considering he was still smiling, "Let go."

"But you're so _cute." _Clint snickered. Steve smacked him. Clint pulled his arm away. "Ow! I bet you let _Tony _call you cute."

"Tony calls me lots of things, I can't stop them all." Wouldn't want to either, but that probably went best unsaid.

"Is he gonna come in here asking for his 'snookums' now?" Clint made a face.

"No." Steve paused. He wouldn't exactly put it _past _Tony… "I don't think so."

"Wait." Clint stopped joking around, a serious look crossing his features. "He still paid, right?"

"That's not important."

"It's pretty fucking important."

"He paid, okay?" Steve felt his cheeks heat. He tried to will it down, but Clint caught him too quickly.

"Spill."

"Spill what? There's nothing to spill, have I mentioned Tony's great, because he's just the best—"

"What did he do?" Clint narrowed his eyes.

"He may have, uh." Steve took another drink to waste a little time. "Possibly tipped me 500%?"

"Oh my god." Clint's bottle slipped from his grip, though he managed to catch it again before it spilled altogether. "Oh my _god."_

"It's not that big of a—"

"Do you _know _how much _money _that is?" Clint squawked, "You had the _midnight room _and he tipped—_oh my god! _I knew he was rich but _Christ, _Steve!"

"I'm a kept man now, aren't I?" Steve groaned into his hands.

"And you should embrace the shit out of it!" Clint shook him by the shoulders.

"Maybe it was an accident," Steve tried, though he knew it was total bull, "He left a note, he was probably just distracted by writing that and wrote an extra zero on the bill without noticing."

"Note?" Clint demanded. "Was it a marriage proposal? You have to say yes. Even if it means pretending to be a woman for the rest of your life, Steve, so help me—"

"No, Clint." Steve rolled his eyes. "He didn't illegally ask me to marry him. He left me this."

He pulled the neatly folded napkin out of his pocket, and handed it over. Clint skimmed it. The ink-splotched napkin said simply,

_890 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan_

_Anytime at all_

"You have to move in with him."

"That is _not _what that means." Steve rolled his eyes.

"I know that, but you should do it anyway. He can't say no if you turn up at his door with all your shit in hand, right? Move in with him, lend me a guest hall, and let's spend the rest of our lives in the lap of luxury. Probably literally for you, but hey, worse places, right?"

"I'm not going to mooch off him, Clint." Steve shot him a look. "And neither are you. It's not right."

"Are you really, totally, completely sure?" Clint pushed, "Because my sense of right and wrong has been fuzzy for a while now and I'm ready to abandon it altogether if you are."

"He loves me," Steve murmured. The thought of it wasn't quite as foreign as yesterday, but it was still new and sweet and filled him with a tingly, pleasant sort of warmth. If he showed up at Tony's door, asked to stay with him…Tony probably _would _let him in. Probably wouldn't even bat an eye at putting Steve up, would probably be more than happy to pay for anything Steve dreamed. Tony had said as much. But even if Steve disregarded his entire moral compass, Tony's words from yesterday still rang in his head. _I was lonely and rich and it was very easy to tell myself they were after what I wanted them to be after. _He'd been used before. Steve's heart hurt at the very thought of Tony ever so much as wondering if Steve might be doing the same. "And I love him. I'm not going to abuse that."

"Ugh." Clint groaned, taking another drink. "Great. We're taking the _high road."_

"We're perfectly fine working for a living, just like everyone else."

"We sell our bodies illegally for money." Clint shot him a look. "We're not exactly 'everyone else'."

"I feel better about this than I would abusing Tony's trust," Steve said firmly.

"I don't know how I feel about having a friend with morals." Clint scrutinized him.

"Funny." Steve rolled his eyes. He hesitated a moment, then brought it up as casually as he could manage. "So, I might've mentioned you. To Tony. At some point. I mean, he mentioned his friends, I mentioned mine, there was a mutual mentioning of friends, and discussion of said friends, not that I told him your name or anything because I know identities are important—"

"I can't decide if this is funny or painful to watch." Clint snorted. "What are you trying to get at here?"

"He'd like to meet you. If you wanted to meet him." Steve straightened. "But only if you promise not to make any comments about going to live with him, I don't want him to think—"

"Tasha!" Clint hollered.

"What are you—?"

"Thor!" Clint hollered again, and Steve leaned over to clap a hand over his mouth.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"What, am I supposed to interrogate this guy alone?" Clint pushed his hand away as Natasha entered the apartment.

"If this is about finding spiders in the bathtub again, I told you just to turn on the water." Natasha sighed.

"No, shut up." Clint glared at her. "We're meeting Steve's beau."

"Oh?" An interested eyebrow shot up.

"Clint!" Steve's eyes went wide.

"What?" Clint protested.

"Present!" Thor boomed, entering through the now open doorway of Clint's apartment.

"This was a horrible mistake." Steve put his face in his hands.

"We all need to pull shift tonight," Clint informed them. Pulling shift was slang for giving their shift to another set of dancers. "We're meeting up with Steve and his beau for drinks."

"Delightful!" Thor beamed.

"I'm in." Natasha agreed immediately.

"I haven't even asked him," Steve protested, "He could be busy."

"If we do it at the same time he always comes in to stare at you adoringly, I don't see why he would be," Clint reasoned.

"I was thinking I'd introduce you to him one at a time," Steve tried, "In small, manageable doses."

"But the shift rotations for all that would be such a hassle." Clint waved him off.

"Phil could manage it all—" Steve started, but it was a bad idea.

"That's right, we've got to get the others!" Clint stood abruptly. "Jane'll kill us if we don't bring her, and Darcy will pitch a fit if Jane meets him and she doesn't—"

"Please stop making this a thing," Steve tried, but it was hopeless.

"Steve, tell Stark to meet us for drinks at McRee's, seven o'clock tonight," Natasha told him.

"How am I supposed to—?"

"Thor—" She'd already moved on. She probably knew about the napkin with the address. Maria had seen it, and if Maria knew, Natasha knew. "—you let Jane know, Jane'll tell Darcy. I'll tell Bruce, he'll bring Betty. Clint—"

"Phil, on it." Clint nodded.

"_Phil?" _Steve groaned.

"He feels bad, let him make up for it." Natasha patted his shoulder.

"I don't have a choice here, do I?" Steve sighed.

"I will feel much more confident in this Anthony's intentions if I may see them firsthand," Thor put in.

"Agreed." Natasha nodded.

"Seconded and thirded." Clint clapped his hands together gleefully. "The motion passes."

* * *

Tony was elbow-deep in wiring when the doorbell rang.

He groaned and rolled out from under the half-completed suit. Rhodey was so damn impatient. Tony was spending almost all his free time on this thing and he'd sure be happy to have the armored backup when the time came, but he couldn't just throw something like this together in a day or two. Not to mention, Rhodey wanted more weapons than Iron Man had. Which meant _designing _more weapons. Honestly, the man had no appreciation for genius at work.

He had to think a moment—was Jarvis home to get the door? No? No, it was a Friday and past noon, he had the rest of the day off—before sitting up properly and heading upstairs. He considered cleaning up—or at least wiping the grease off his hands—but Rhodey had seen him looking far worse so he didn't bother.

"I'm no closer to finished than yesterday, Rho—" Tony ground to a halt. "Steve."

It was Steve at his doorstep. They'd seen each other just a few hours ago—not that Tony would ever be remiss at Steve's company—and he found himself inordinately pleased that maybe he wasn't the only one too far gone to bother with silly things like giving the courtesy of space. As if Tony would ever want anything resembling space from Steve in the first place. The man looked good, too; he'd look good in just about anything, but the pressed khakis and checkered shirt looked very wholesome on him in a way Tony was fairly certain he'd never find appealing on anyone else. On Steve, though…

"Hello." Steve gave an awkward half-wave, glancing Tony over. Oh, crap. He looked like a homeless man. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"

"No! No, of course not." He tried to subtly rub the grease on his hands off on the back of his pants. "Sorry about…all of me. I'd have cleaned up if I'd known you were coming, I've just been a little lost in the shop today. And I'd kiss you hello, but I just drank one of Dum-E's smoothies and I probably taste like grass."

Steve somehow must've taken this positively, because he kissed him anyway. "You do."

"Hm?" Tony blinked, the simple, chaste kiss still enough to give him pause.

"You do taste like grass." Steve—kind, wonderful Steve—just smiled at him. "What kind of smoothies are you drinking?"

"Hell if I know. But they're good for my heart, apparently, at least according to Jarvis." Steve was never going to come back if grease and grass were the only impressions Tony made. "I swear I'm not always this much of a mess."

"That's a shame." Steve's smile seemed to settle more, the anxiety in the edges slipping away. "You're a very handsome mess."

"You're the first to think so." Tony laughed. "The grease is usually a turn-off."

"You just look like you've been enjoying yourself." Steve reached out to wipe a bit of it off his chin, chuckling. "Enthusiastically."

"Want to see what I've been up to?" Tony offered. He wasn't certain what Steve was here for, but if getting him into the house meant keeping his company a little longer Tony would certainly try.

"I'd love to." Steve looked pleased, though he hesitated. "I should mention that's not why I came, though. I didn't—I wouldn't just drop in on you for no reason—"

"I don't see why not, you absolutely should," Tony interrupted, "As often as you want. I go to the club to seek your company, I don't see why you shouldn't be able to do the same. If you want to."

"Of course I want to." Steve's smile went a few notches brighter. "I suppose I will, if you're sure it's alright. But I came by because…well. Were you serious when you asked to meet my friends?"

"Of course." It might've been a bit of an offhand comment at the time, but Tony sure wouldn't turn down the opportunity if it were presented to him.

"Good." Steve finally seemed to relax, the last bit of uncomfortable tension draining out. "Great. They're sort of overeager, they were thinking tonight, but if you're busy of course it's perfectly fine—"

"Trust me." Tony chuckled. "I'll make time."

"You don't have to," Steve said quickly, "And if something comes up, you can cancel—"

"Are you embarrassed of me?" Tony teased. Well, mostly. There was thread of possible worry, but it was immediately buried when Steve's expression went hilariously stunned.

"_What?" _Steve sputtered.

"If you don't want me to meet your friends all you have to do is say so, I can make up an excuse if you'd like me to—"

"I'm a _stripper," _Steve blurted.

"I'm mildly aware, yes," Tony mused, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Why would _I _be embarrassed of _you?"_

"You saw what I look like out of a suit and had second thoughts?" Tony laughed, less concerned after seeing Steve's reaction.

"You look delicious out of a suit, why would that give me second thoughts?" Steve only seemed to realize exactly what he'd said after he finished saying it. He seemed to be stubbornly willing down a blush and losing. "I mean—that is—"

"Delicious." Tony grinned. "I like that one."

"You're very attractive." Steve raised his chin, looking sweetly determined to stand by it.

"Flatterer." Tony itched to kiss him. "Could I kiss you, or has that stupid smoothie ruined it for now? I could brush my teeth, if you promise not to go running off while I—"

Steve moved not only to kiss him but to take him by the waist and pull him closer, wrap him up in those wonderfully big arms of his. Super-enhanced arms, it seemed. Tony could definitely work with that. They moved past the doorway, Steve using his heel to get the door closed behind him. They stayed there a moment, wound up and passionate, Steve's hands caressing over Tony's back like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't hold nearly enough of him at once. Tony reveled in the feeling of it, the warm affection that always came so easily with Steve's presence. It was wonderful; everything about Steve was wonderful. He was ruined for anyone else, that much was completely obvious, but he was also blissfully, perfectly okay with that.

"I'm really happy to see you," Steve told him when they parted, his smile wide and his eyes soft and everything about him just so achingly sincere.

"Might've caught on to that." Tony smiled back, kissed him again. "I am too, love."

"You said something about a workshop?"

"Did I?"

Steve laughed. "Pretty sure."

"I might have one of those." Tony loosed his arms from around Steve's neck, but took his hand. "This way."

"Is anyone home?" Steve glanced about, but didn't release Tony's hand.

"No." Tony squeezed. "Just us. Even if we weren't, Jarvis or Rhodey are the only ones who come by and they're discrete. Very interested in meeting you, but discrete."

"I'd like to meet them," Steve replied immediately, "You could bring them, tonight. If you wanted?"

"Jarvis isn't really a drinking buddy." Tony discarded the idea. "You can meet him another time, but Rhodey would certainly be interested. The place we're going to, how open-minded are they?"

"Why?" Steve got a bit of a cagey look to him, and Tony knew he'd misunderstood the question.

"Rhodey's Negro," Tony prompted, "Will there be a problem?"

"Oh." Steve's brow wrinkled. "I can't imagine so. Sam, the barkeep? He is too."

"I'll let Rhodey know, then. When and where?"

"Seven, and McRee's. I don't know the address, but if you're standing in front of Club Shield, you go to the right three blocks, take a left, go a block, then it's to your right. Big red sign, hard to miss." Steve paused as Tony opened the door to the basement stairs, and shot Tony a grin. "Dragging me into your basement after only one date?"

"Molesting me up against my door after only one date?" Tony teased.

"Right." Steve's grin went a little embarrassed, and he rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. "Sorry."

Tony slammed to a halt. Steve bumped into his back.

"Did you just apologize for the best kiss of my life?" Tony demanded.

"No?" Steve tried, a helplessly bright smile worming its way back onto his features.

"Good." Tony squeezed his hand and tugged him down to kiss him again; Steve was already taller than him, but one step up on the stairs and even on his tiptoes Tony couldn't have come anywhere near his lips without assistance. "Don't do that."

"Alright, Tony," Steve agreed easily, voice happy and just a little love-dopey in the sweetest of ways.

Tony opened the door to the shop with a wide gesture, unable to resist a moment of showing off. "Welcome to the future."

He watched Steve's face eagerly for his reaction; he wasn't disappointed. Steve's eyebrows jumped immediately and his eyes went gratifyingly wide, darting all around to take in each new project with a sharp inhale.

"You _made _these things?" He took a step forward, then back.

"Sure." Tony bounced a little, pleased that Steve liked it. "Go on, poke around. Touch stuff, if you want. They won't break and they shouldn't bite."

"Shouldn't?" Steve glanced at him, amused.

"Well…" Tony shot a look at the dumb pile of bolts in the corner. "One might. He's a little faulty. I'm working on that."

"He?" Steve followed his gaze.

"He's supposed to just pick stuff up and hand it to me." Tony sighed. "But he doesn't do it very well yet. His systems are buggy at best."

"Tony." Steve's breath caught a little, and he wandered closer to it. Tony followed. "Are you telling me you have a _robot _in your basement?"

"He's an embarrassment to the concept, but I suppose." Tony gave the guy a little kick.

"God Almighty you're brilliant," Steve breathed softly, running a curious hand over the bot's claw and frame. "What can he do?"

"Roll around, mostly. I _can _order him to pick stuff up, but he'll just drop it so it's kind of pointless." Steve looked at him with what could only be described as puppy dog eyes. He didn't need to voice the question. Tony caved. "Yeah, yeah. Let me find something."

He went over to the nearest workbench, sorted through the junk to find something harmless. He came away with a wrench and tossed it on the floor.

"Fetch, Dum-E."

"Why would you call him a—" Steve paused as Dum-E's gears kicked up and his floor-sensors beeped, looking for what Tony had ordered him to retrieve and he scoot-rolled over to the wrench. Steve let out an amazed exhale of, "Oh, wow."

Dum-E didn't seem to be going for the wrench though. He veered, going instead towards Tony.

"What are you doing now?" Tony clicked his tongue, exasperated. "The wrench, Dum-E. Over there."

Dum-E only had three commands though, 'fetch', 'abort', and 'return', so there was really no point in trying to instruct him. He groped for Tony's shoe.

"I would stop calling him dummy, he clearly doesn't like it." Steve chuckled.

"That's his name, d-u-m, dash, capital E. And if he doesn't like it, then he should stop being such a—ow!Dum-E!" Tony yelped as Dum-E clamped shut on his foot. "Abort, that's my—_ow, _I said abort, you dumb bucket of—"

"Dum-E, let go of him," Steve instructed firmly, coming over and squatting down to unclamp Dum-E vice grip on Tony's foot. Tony was momentarily confused—the bot had a very strong grip, human hands shouldn't have been able to just open it up—until he remembered Steve was a superhuman. Steve, oblivious, shot Dum-E a stern look. "That wasn't very nice."

"You're aware he doesn't understand you, right?" Tony pointed out, bringing his foot up to rub the sensation back into it. Pointing out the futility of the action did nothing to stop the swell of warmth he felt at seeing Steve do it anyway.

"I don't know about that." Steve tilted his head at the bot curiously. "I bet he understands plenty. He heard you making fun of him, so he poked a little fun back."

"You're giving him far more credit than he deserves. Dum-E, return." Tony pointed back at Dum-E's charging station. Dum-E didn't move. Tony kicked him with his still-sore foot. Dum-E beeped mutinously, so Tony pushed and shoved him along. "You need to charge, you stubborn little thing. Come on, there you go, into the station. Honestly, was that so hard?"

He glanced up, and Steve was looking at him funny. Before he could ask, Steve shook his head with a laugh. "You're just…you're amazing, you know that? I don't even know what to do with you."

"I suggest kisses," Tony offered.

"I see." Steve chuckled, but he was already moving into Tony's space. "And how many kisses would you suggest, exactly?"

"Exactly?" Tony repeated. Steve nodded with a hum, his hands slipping back to hold Tony's waist like before. Tony curled his own into Steve's shirt, tugged him a little closer. "Depends. How many until your lips tire?"

Steve laughed. Tony felt it reverberate through his chest. "I have no idea."

"I can hardly make an estimate without knowing the proper limits," Tony informed him, tilting his head back a little. The man was wonderfully tall. "We'll need to experiment with that, first."

"Of course." Steve's head dipped closer. "No time like the present."

Tony's past relationships had always leaned more towards the tawdry. He'd always felt a bit like a new toy in them, cheap and shiny and valuable, maybe, but not valued. He'd had to try so hard to get just the littlest bit of affection, or attention—and Lord, if that didn't make him sound needy—but Steve gave it all so freely. He seeped affection like he couldn't contain it, in little ways, like his always lingering gaze and the pleased curl of his lips when he said Tony's name and the achingly genuine way he said things like _I'm really happy to see you _as if the little things weren't all Tony had ever really wanted from someone. Like he himself wasn't everything Tony had ever wanted personified.

There was just such a _genuineness_ about him, warm and gentle and unassuming. Tony was so used to being rushed that he'd never experienced before how easy it could be to simply be with someone like this, content to stay close and soak up the easy bliss Steve radiated without worrying about anything beyond it. He liked learning the way Steve's mouth curved and gave against his, the feel of his lips and slide of his tongue. It was simple, instinctual.

Tony had never been happier.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve felt both validated and terrified by how well Clint and Tony got on.

He'd thought they would, of course, but hadn't bet on quite _how _well they'd get on though, which was really his own fault. Still, despite Clint, Darcy, and Tony all winding up on the floor, Steve was calling the night a success. Tony and Rhodey had both acclimated to the group as a whole very well. Phil had even shaken Tony's hand, which Clint, before he became unintelligible, had said was better than an apology. Natasha had given Steve her own little nod of approval, and the whole bar had gotten an earful of Thor's vigorous support.

After a little while, Rhodey excused himself from their table to go to the bar. He gestured for Steve to join him. Steve glanced at Tony for clarification, but Tony was busy cheering for Clint to take a shot.

"Tony's an ass," Rhodey informed him as they approached the bar.

"Excuse me?" Steve frowned.

"Not always." Rhodey made no move to summon the barkeep. "But he can be. He can be a hell of a lot of things, primarily stubborn and a pain."

"Did you pull me aside just to try and scare me off?"

"I've known Tony nearly my whole life." Rhodey didn't answer, only eyed him. "He's a lot to handle. Worth it, but a lot. I'm trying to get a feel for how certain you are."

"I'm entirely certain," Steve told him firmly, because it was true.

He had no doubts. There were questions still to be answered about how their future would play out, considering the nature of his job and the vast disparity between their lifestyles, but he did truly believe they could have a future. Steve _wanted _this, wanted Tony, more than he'd ever wanted anything. So long as Tony wanted him too, they could make this work.

"You're certain now. But how certain are you gonna be when you're not so new and shiny to him? When he delves into his work and doesn't come up for food, water or rest, and ignores you altogether, even refuses your company? When he leaves to go on wild, insane adventures at the drop of a hat, may or may not notify you, and comes back bleeding and bruised with a hundred new stories about how he almost—and most times, should have—died? Tony's impulsive as hell, he drinks too much, and he's the single most stubborn man I've ever met in my entire life. You still gonna be certain when he's not just some charming, adventuresome stranger?"

"You're highlighting the worst in him." Steve shook his head. "And I get why you're doing it, but he's a passionate person. It comes out in impulsivity and stubbornness, yes, but it also comes out in compassion and ingenuity. If he dives into his work it's because he's got a vision. You've been in that shop of his, haven't you? I sure wouldn't want to deprive the world of whatever he's working on down there. And he might take off on adventures and he might put himself in harm's way and I can't say I love the idea of it, but telling those stories are the happiest I ever see him. I can only imagine what he's like when he's living it. I don't doubt I'll get frustrated with him at times, and I sure as hell don't doubt he'll get frustrated with me, but you can't love only the good in a person, either. I don't know everything about him yet, but I know a hell of a lot and I know the good in him is beyond worth the rest of it. I'm certain of that, just like I'm certain of him."

There was a brief pause before Rhodey smiled. "If you meant all that, next round's on me."

Steve turned, called to the others, "Rhodes says he's buying next round!"

Cheers went up around the table. Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder amicably. "You're alright, Rogers."

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur; Steve couldn't get drunk, but he had fun trying and the others didn't take long to get there. He and Tony couldn't dance together, but it was fairly dark so Tony's hand still touched his back every so often and occasionally his knee under the table. It was nice, having Tony here. It felt different, being out in public with his friends and in front of strangers, but a good different. Everything with Tony so far had been very clandestine, rather secretive, both by necessity and by situation. It hadn't been so bad, of course, and he certainly liked having Tony to himself, but it was nice to feel a little more normal, too.

They wrapped up around eleven, since Steve and his coworkers had the noon shift tomorrow for missing tonight's. They were, for the most part, stumbling drunk, but had only a three block walk and a sobered up Phil and Steve to guide them. They were just leaving when instead of saying goodbye, Tony caught him by the wrist and tugged him into the back alleyway.

"Just a minute," Steve tried to remind him, though he knew he'd stay back here giving Tony his proper goodbye as long as Tony wanted, "Or they're going to leave without me."

"Jus' a minute." Tony agreed, then his warm hand went around the back of Steve's neck and he tugged him down. The kiss was a little sloppier than usual and Steve could taste the scotch still lingering on Tony's tongue, but it certainly wasn't unpleasant. It did remind him of something, though.

"Tony?"

"Hm?"

"How're you getting home? You aren't driving like this, are you?"

"Cab, prob'ly." Tony's fingers went to Steve's hair. He wasn't quite stroking through it so much as playing with it. "You have the prettiest hair."

"A cab at this time?" Steve frowned. They were unreliable at best, Tony could be out here another hour trying to hail one. "Why don't you stay with me? I'm just three blocks, we can walk from here."

Strangely, Tony seemed to sober a little at that. He gave his head a shake at least, seeming to try and clear the fog. Finally he glanced up at Steve, unusually hesitant.

"Are you sure?"

"About how far my apartment is?"

"About if you want to take me there."

Steve's first thought was _why wouldn't I?, _before he realized Tony's thought process. It made sense, he supposed, but simply wasn't valid anymore. Steve leaned in and clasped his hands to Tony's face in attempted reassurance, stroking his thumbs in the same caress Tony was always giving him.

"You're not my client anymore. Whatever happens from here out, however things go with us, you're my friend and you're my lover. Nothing more or less. I don't need to hide anything from you, Tony." The cautious hope in Tony's eyes almost hurt to see, to think of all the times that hope might've been dashed or abused. Steve kissed him again, briefly, because he could and he wanted to. "Forget the privacy policies and all that, alright? Just come back to my place. I don't want you getting mugged or God knows what else out here."

"Who's gonna mug Iron Man?" Tony challenged in response, but his smile was wide enough to tell Steve the message had been received.

"Steve!" Clint hollered, "Quit makin' time and help us haul Thor outta the gutter!"

"Coming!" Steve called back, then leaned in for one last kiss. "Come on, sweetheart."

"What'd you call me?" The grin that split Tony's face was pleased and a little disbelieving.

"You've called me _dollface._" Steve made a face. "I think I can call you sweetheart."

"Not a fan of dollface?"

"I don't know, am I seeing a mobster?"

"Message received, gumdrop." Tony squeezed Steve's shoulder once before they exited the alleyway and he had to let his hand drop. Steve rolled his eyes, but couldn't fight a smile.

While Steve helped Clint and Phil haul Thor out of the gutter, Tony said his goodbyes to a sobered up Rhodey then joined the walking group by way of slinging an arm around Bruce's shoulder and babbling on about some law with a lot of very long, very complex words. Steve shook his head with a smile; even drunk, Tony was nothing short of brilliant. Bruce seemed pretty smart himself, keeping up easily and with more excitement than Steve could remember ever seeing from him.

It took them nearly an hour to go the laughably short distance, mostly because Clint and Tony continued to stumble off the curb until Natasha grabbed Clint by the collar and threw him bodily into Phil, who sighed but hoisted him up. Tony, seeing this, decided he could plaster himself to Steve's side as well.

"Pl'tonic male friends help pl'tonic male friends walk, Steve," Tony informed him seriously.

"Of course they do," Steve agreed, tightening the arm around Tony's waist.

"Love my pl'tonic male friend," Tony told him, dropping his head against Steve's shoulder.

"And does Rhodey love you back?" Steve teased, raising an amused eyebrow at him. Tony snickered.

"Course Rhodeybear loves me. Not like you though." Tony nuzzled closer. "No one's like you."

"You're certainly an affectionate drunk." Steve smiled.

"Jus' for you." Tony glanced up at the sky. "Was gonna buy you a constellation, y'know. Looked into it an' everything."

"Tony, you don't need to—"

"I know, I know. I didn't. Wanted to though. You'd be a very pretty constellation. Pretty anything, obviously. Can I jus'…" Tony sighed wistfully, squeezed his arm a little tighter. "Can I keep you?"

The idea that anyone could have ever have let Tony go was unbelievable to Steve.

"Of course you can." Steve glanced around cautiously. It was a quiet night; a car or two up the block, a handful of people across the street, but overall very dark, very hard to see the distinct gender of two shapes in the night. Steve kissed the side of Tony's head. "I'm yours as long as you want me."

"Gonna abuse that, y'know."

"I'm sure hoping so." Steve just pulled him closer.

By the time they made it back to Steve's place, Tony had moved into the exhaustion stage of drunk. He was practically unconscious by the time they got to the door, meaning Steve had to all but carry him into the apartment. He didn't mind too much, really; he could lift cars, Tony's weight was miniscule in comparison and to be perfectly honest he rather liked holding Tony like this. Tony was awake, sort of, enough to nuzzle at Steve's chest and press lazy kisses along his throat once they were inside. He seemed awake enough to tug off his own socks and shoes anyway, but when Steve left briefly to fetch pajamas for them, he returned to an unconscious adventurer with one shoe off, leg still dangling over the edge of the bed. Steve smiled fondly at the sight. He finished the job, stripping him of his shoes and socks and maneuvering him under the covers.

"Steve," Tony mumbled, grasping his wrist, "Sleep with me?"

"I'll just be a minute," Steve promised, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead before extracting his wrist gently from Tony's grip.

He changed and brushed his teeth before joining Tony. Last night had been somewhat haphazard; they'd simply fallen asleep more than actually gotten into bed in any sort of position. He wondered if Tony would object to being the little spoon. He hoped not. He hadn't considered it previously, but the more he thought about the idea now the more he liked it. Unless Tony just wanted to sleep side by side? He didn't really like that idea, but he wasn't certain how to broach the topic since Tony wasn't particularly lucid at the moment. Should he just roll over and pull Tony into his arms and see what happened? He was about to give it a shot when Tony scooted into him and tugged Steve's arm around himself, announcing loudly and with finality,

"'m the li'l spoon."

Steve burrowed closer happily, kissing the back of his neck with a pleased smile. "Alright, Tony."

* * *

The next two months passed in an easy bliss Tony had never experienced before. Steve didn't want him coming by the club anymore, not as a client—it probably wouldn't be good for his health, or at least his heart, to watch Steve give anyone else a lap dance anyway—but they were nearly always together outside of that. Steve had taken to watching Tony work, claiming a small corner of the shop as his own. Seeing this, Tony had expanded upon the area, filling it with a proper studio table for him to work on and a few cabinets for supplies. Steve made a comment or two about how his supplies seemed to magically duplicate every time he put something in there, but didn't otherwise protest.

Steve and money was a tricky thing. If Tony had his way they would already live together flat out and Steve would have anything he desired, but he hadn't mentioned it because he knew Steve and he knew that Steve would want to get his feet under him on his own first. He was stubborn that way. Tony respected that. Steve didn't seem to mind gifts though, so long as they weren't in excess and he knew they came from Tony just wanting to make him happy instead of wanting to fix something.

They had an unofficial standing arrangement where they wormed their way into each other's beds at every opportunity; Steve would often "accidentally" forget the time and stay in Tony's shop a little too long, Tony would often wind up staying at McRee's with what had become somewhat "their" group of friends until it was too late to catch a cab home. And of course, he couldn't bring his car when he was going to be drinking; that was simply irresponsible.

Despite this, they hadn't had sex and Tony found himself surprisingly alright with that. Not that he would've pushed Steve—of _course_ not—but he'd expected to feel more impatient than he did. Aside from spending a little more time than usual with his right hand, however, he wasn't particularly put out. He enjoyed spending time with Steve. He liked their stolen dates, liked the casual time together they could wile away in the shop and the times they could go to bed together. There were kisses, of course—copious, enthusiastic, and often rather heated kisses—but their progress was slow and natural and strangely satisfying in a way Tony couldn't quite explain.

His first adventure after they got together went surprisingly well. Tony had made sure to remember to tell him where he'd be going and when he'd be leaving—he could be forgetful when he got caught up in the excitement of a new opportunity, he knew—and Steve had seemed nothing but pleased for him. Tony had gotten a little banged around, a few new bruises and a bit of a twisted knee, and a mishap with the navigation meant he wound up spending an extra three days travelling back. He'd expected disapproval for returning late; it was no less than what he'd always received.

Instead, when he'd called Steve to let him know he'd returned, all he'd gotten was an eager, "I'll be over in a half hour—no, shoot, an hour and a half, I have—never mind, I'll get Clint to cover me, I'll be over in a half hour. Love you, see you soon!"

Tony had stared at the phone for a long moment before he finally set it back on the hook so the dead line sound would cease. He'd thought maybe it was a fluke. Maybe Steve had just sounded more excited over the phone? But then Steve had arrived, came inside without even knocking—Tony had been trying to get him to do so for weeks, but Steve was ridiculously polite—and all but knocked Tony over with the enthusiasm of his embrace. When he'd put him down, he'd gone a mile a minute asking about each step of the trip, how the travelling had gone, if he'd found what he was looking for, on and on. He was practically bouncing. Even when Tony had admitted to his injuries and waited for the flash of disappointment, the you-should-take-better-care-of-yourself speech, instead Steve had only pushed him into a chair and told him he shouldn't be standing on it then, idiot. He'd fussed over him a little even, insisted on wrapping it up with some of the medical gauze Tony kept about while he heard the story of how it happened.

Tony hadn't thought it possible to love the man more, but he really should've known better.

He wanted Steve to come with him next time. Well, he wanted Steve to come with him always, but he was fairly certain one would lead to the other. Steve already had a taste for adventure; he all but lit up when Tony told him stories. If Tony could convince him to come along for just one trip, he was certain Steve would be every inch as addicted to the life as Tony was. He'd certainly be useful, too, muscles like his. Not to mention he'd probably make a far more skilled navigator than Rhodey, Pepper and Tony combined. This in mind, Tony was keeping an eye out for prospects that might pique Steve's interest. Soon enough, he found the perfect one.

"Steve?" Tony knocked twice on the door before letting himself into Steve's apartment.

"Minute!" Steve called from somewhere off in the bedroom area. Tony considered taking a seat on the couch, but was too eager to sit still.

He was a horrible person for taking pleasure in this. And he wasn't, not really, not in the mission _itself, _but he couldn't help being excited knowing there was little to no chance Steve would turn down accompanying him.

"Hey." Steve exited his bedroom freshly showered, clothes on but his hair still wet. He was rubbing it dry with a towel, and Tony was temporarily derailed by a flash hallucination of Steve in the shower before he quickly returned to reality.

"Hey." He crossed to give Steve a quick hello kiss. "So I've been chatting with the military."

"Interesting segue." Steve quirked his head. "Why?"

"A unit of ours is being detained illegally by a division of the Nazi's, something called HYDRA." Tony shot him a challenging grin. "Rhodey and I are going after them. You in?"

"Am I…?" Steve blinked rapidly. "What?"

"I've got certain ins with the military," Tony explained a little further, "I provide assistance where I can, patriotic duty and such. One of my sources says they've got a unit in a bad way, one they can't go after without putting more lives than they'd be saving at risk. I thought you might want to come along?"

"With you?" It seemed to finally register with Steve. "As some sort of…travel companion? What could I even do?"

"Well, we have this opening right now," Tony pointed out, faux serious, "We're looking for a stubborn superhuman. Someone to lift heavy objects, navigate us, that sort of thing. Also, he has to be available for kisses at all times, that's simply non-negotiable."

"It'd sure be nice." Steve's voice held an aching sort of wistfulness Tony wasn't quite sure what to do with.

"So say yes," Tony implored, "Come with me. I can't imagine anyone I'd rather have by my side."

"Tony." Steve looked horribly disappointed. "You know that I can't."

"Who gives a damn what Marvel's has to say about it?" Tony insisted, because screw them and their damned close-mindedness, "They told me I couldn't bring Rhodey along because he's Negro, I told them to shove it and he's been with me for near to a decade now. They won't even know there's anything to object about, if we're discreet about the nature of things—"

Steve interrupted before he could build up too much more steam, "No, I—Tony, that's not why I can't go."

An awful thought occurred to him. "Do you not want to?"

"Of course I want to," Steve rushed to assure.

"Then why on earth would you think you couldn't?"

"I don't work at the club for fun." Steve looked a little amused that Tony was missing his point. "We can't all take off for some rescue mission on a whim, much as I'd like to."

Tony paused, mulling that over. "I suppose you wouldn't want to actually be my kept man?"

"No, I wouldn't." Steve kissed his cheek. "If I'd do it for anyone I'd do it for you, but I'm not going to run off and live on your dime, Tony. It's not right."

"What if I got you a job?"

"I told you, I don't want to work with people just humoring me because you asked them to—"

"No, I mean with me." The idea was gaining traction in his mind now. "For Marvel's. They've been wanting to send a photographer with me for ages, but it's never worked because they'd put themselves—not to mention Rhodey and I—in danger by stopping to take pictures instead of staying alert and on the move. If you came with me, you could assist me in the moment and draw scenes afterwards from memory. Or would that be difficult? I'm not an artist, I wouldn't know, but I'm sure it wouldn't have to be exact, just similar enough for them to print alongside the story—"

"Slow down." Steve clasped his shoulders. "They might not even like my work—"

"That's bullshit, you've got talent spilling out your ears." Tony snorted. When Steve opened his mouth to protest again, he added, "I _know _I'm biased, but Rhodey's said the same. And Clint, and Natasha, and everyone else you've ever shown, I've heard them."

"You have?"

"Of course I have, you're spectacularly talented, I've been telling you so for months. Come on," Tony wheedled, "Just give it a trial run? Save some soldiers, try the adventurer-artist thing, make out with me in a plane, it'll be fun. You must have a sick day or two to call in, right?"

"A few…" Steve was already sold, Tony knew it, he just needed the little push.

"It'll take three days, tops," Tony insisted, "We fly in, storm the camp, walk the troops the 30-odd miles back to base, fly home. Alright, maybe four days, but I'll pay your boss whatever missed profit he grouses about and I'm sure he'll call it even."

Steve bit his lip. Rolled it between his teeth. "You really think I'd get the job?"

"I do. And I'm not being biased, I swear—okay, a little—but I know your work and I know what they're looking for and it's a good fit. If you want it, it's yours." Tony moved closer, took his hands. "Steve, sweetheart, think about it: travelling the world for a living? Seeing the sights and saving people along the way, just you, me and the open sky? Or ocean, or land, I suppose, the whole world's our oyster. Doesn't that just sound like a dream?"

"I think you're forgetting a few people," Steve pointed out wryly.

"I suppose if you want to get technical about it. But 'you, me, Rhodey and Pepper' doesn't sound quite so enticing, does it?"

"Any sentence with you and I together sounds perfect to me." An irresistible little smile played over Steve's lips. "When do we leave?"

Tony grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him into a kiss, gratitude surging high. He knew, he just _knew _once Steve got a taste he'd be dying for the Marvel's job. Of course, once they got a taste of Steve's art, they'd be dying for him to get it too; Tony could have this, he really could. He wasn't quite sure how to wrap his head around that so he didn't, he just kissed Steve until they were both entirely breathless.

"Not today, then?" Steve paused to ask. Tony shook his head, temporarily unable to draw up further response. They'd leave tomorrow, once Rhodey got back. "Good. How long can you stay?"

"Got all the time in the world for you, love," Tony assured, moving for another kiss. Steve continued talking instead, for reasons Tony couldn't fathom.

"No, I mean it." Steve's hands dipped under his waistband, just enough to run his fingers over Tony's hips; he'd never done _that _before. Tony was fairly certain he was about to set some kind of arousal record. "How long?"

"If this is going where I think it is, I am fully prepared to disregard literally everything else."

"Tony."

"Hours, sweetheart, I'm free all day—"

"You're never free all day."

"It's just coding upgrades, I swear it's unimportant." Tony pulled him closer, pressed kisses along his jaw and neck. "What've you got in mind?"

"I'd like to try something."

"I'm all for trying things, I love things, everyone should try things, things are fantastic—"

"Tony." Steve silenced him temporarily with a fond look. "I'd like to give you a blowjob."

"Did I forget it's my birthday again?" Was his voice a little higher than usual, or was that just him?

"It's not your birthday." Steve smiled anyway, gave him another kiss. "I just want to."

"Christmas?" Tony tried.

"It's not Christmas." Steve laughed.

"You look entirely less nervous than the last time you were confronted with my potential nudity," Tony pointed out.

"Because I _am _entirely less nervous." Steve maneuvered him backwards a little with a light touch to his chest. "I'm comfortable with you. How could I not be?"

"Are you expecting me to answer that? Because I'm having a little trouble getting past the whole, uh." Tony swallowed as Steve gently pushed him onto the couch. "This. All of it. Everything. I should've invited you to adventure with me months ago, Christ—"

"That's not why, Tony." Steve bent over him, not quite kneeling to straddle him just bending down to give him a kiss. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. Even got a few tips."

"You got a few—who am I kidding, of course you did, you strategize everything, no wonder you can beat me at chess. I didn't find 'planning' hot before I met you, for the record. You've completely ruined me for anyone else, I hope you know that. God, what's wrong with me, why is it so much hotter that you planned this?"

"I don't know." Steve smiled at him. "Why are you so much cuter when you babble nervously?"

"I'm not—" Tony paused. Okay, he was babbling, but, "Nervous is definitely the wrong word."

"Anticipatorily felt a little long for bedroom talk."

"I love you." Tony felt the emotion surge so he grasped Steve's hips and pulled him in again, hoping Steve would get the hint and kiss him again. He did. "I love you so much, Steve. With or without this. You know that, don't you?"

"I know." Steve cupped his jaw to tilt his head back, get a deeper kiss out of him. They stayed like that a moment, before Steve's other hand went for Tony's belt.

He gave a bit of a groan, but Steve just kissed him through it. He undid the belt with little to no effort, though he needed Tony's help with his trousers, help Tony was more than eager to provide. He hadn't stripped quite so fast in decades. Steve took a moment to observe him, then, seeming to sense Tony's haste, slowed him down by pressing his hands down on Tony's shifting hips and leaning in for a slower, lazier kiss. Tony couldn't help himself; he gave a bit of an impatient whine. Steve smiled into the kiss.

"First of many, sweetheart," he broke away to murmur, "I'm not going to freak out and change my mind, okay? I promise. Relax."

Sweet as Steve's innocent nerves had been, Tony could certainly get used to this. He nodded, tipped his head back in hopes of another kiss. He wasn't disappointed. Steve kissed him a little longer, hands sliding down over his still-clothed chest and stomach as he moved to kneel. They broke the kiss when the angle got too awkward to maintain, just as Steve's hand approached his cock. Tony dropped back into the couch with a guttural groan. It'd been far too long since anyone had touched him.

Steve settled between his legs and curled a hand around him properly, just the right side of tight, giving few torturously slow pumps.

"You like that?"

Tony nodded, swallowing long enough to speak, albeit a little breathlessly. "Faster."

Steve's speed increased immediately, drawing a soft gasp of appreciation from him. Steve gave a pleased hum at the sound and moved closer to begin pressing kisses along the inside of Tony's thigh. Tony pushed a little harder into Steve's hand, earning himself a twist of Steve's wrist and a thumb along the head that had him seeing stars. Christ, his skin felt like fire. He needed to grab something, anything. He scrabbled at the couch but couldn't a good grip, so he gave in and dug his fingers into Steve's hair; former partners had complained, but Steve would say so if he didn't like it, wouldn't he? Steve glanced up at him and to Tony's immense relief, he was smiling.

"Tug a little harder, if you want," Steve encouraged, "Feels nice."

"God," Tony gasped more than said, because someone out there had tailor-made Steve for him, he was certain of it, "Love you."

"Gonna love me a hell of a lot more in a second." Steve just grinned up at him before ducking his head back down to lick a stripe up Tony's cock.

He did dig his fingers in then and true to his word Steve made a sound of appreciation low in his throat. Steve bent forward again to take him in his mouth and give an experimental suck; Tony inhaled sharply. He tried to hold back a moan but of course failed completely. Steve, encouraged, sucked a little harder, his hand dipping back to brush his fingers over Tony's balls. Tony's hips jerked up involuntarily but Steve was prepared, just stilled Tony with his free hand, releasing him long enough to glance up with an apologetic smile.

"Not quite there yet, sweetheart."

"Perfectly fine," Tony just told him breathlessly, "It's perfect and you're perfect and I love you and please, _please _do that again."

"I love you too, Tony." Steve gave a soft little chuckle before settling between Tony's thighs again and resuming.

He was inexperienced, obviously, but he didn't bite and he liked Tony's hands in his hair so that alone made it the best blowjob Tony had received in a very long time. The fact that it was Steve made it the best ever, but that might've been Tony getting sentimental again. He came very shortly after Steve told him, voice rough and lips shiny with spit and precome, _come for me, baby._

_Very _shortly after.

He managed a warning—he was proud of that, considering his complete lack of mental faculties—but Steve just put his mouth back, sucked a little harder and dug his fingers into Tony's hips and if there was a better signal for 'come in my mouth' Tony hadn't heard of it. His breathing hitched and he moaned Steve's name; Steve swallowed like it was nothing, though he made an interesting face.

"Bad?"

"Strangely like pineapple." Steve ran his tongue over his teeth, like he could still taste it, and Tony was briefly overwhelmed by the fact that Steve was contemplating what his come tasted like.

"You are…" He huffed a laugh. Were there words for Steve? If there were, he certainly couldn't think of them now. "Something else. God, I love you."

"You liked it, then?" Steve shot him a little smile. Tony made an exasperated noise, grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into his lap for a kiss that expressed precisely how much he'd liked it.

"Loved it. Worthy of a little worshipful gratitude, if you ask me," Tony told him, getting a hand over Steve's belt. He paused for any potential objections, but Steve just rutted his hips forward a little when Tony's hands came close. Tony kissed him, flicking his thumb over the buckle. "My turn, darling."


	9. Chapter 9

"So, to clarify." Rhodey stared at them when they finished explaining. "You ambushed and hauled me onto a plane to Austria—a warzone we have no clearance to enter, by the way—with no warning, no backup and, essentially, no plan."

Steve and Tony exchanged a glance.

"Roughly," Tony admitted.

Rhodey pinched his forehead. "Right. Do we even have a map of the area?"

"We know it's in Krossberg," Steve put in. Rhodey had been a surprisingly good sport about them showing up and telling him to get on a plane so they could go save some soldiers; apparently he hadn't been kidding about having experience with Tony's impulsivity. "Up between two mountain ranges. Our best guess is that it's some kind of factory. We don't have any _good_ maps, but we've got coordinates and Tony's guy says he can get us within spitting distance."

"So the three of us are just gonna bust in, guns ablaze?" Rhodey glanced between them. "You even know how to fire a gun, Steve?"

"I went to boot camp." Steve clenched his jaw. He knew Rhodey didn't mean anything by it, but it was still a touchy subject.

"He's got combat training, weapons training, and reflexes like you wouldn't believe," Tony added, "He'll be useful, Rhodey, trust me. Besides, you remember that raw material we went after in Wakanda ages ago?"

"Somethin' with a v." Rhodey racked his brain for the word. "Vibranium, right? Stronger than steel?"

"And a third the weight." Tony nodded, retrieving something from underneath the bench. He passed the shield to Steve. "I put it to use making this nifty thing a while back. Who needs backup? We'll have our armor, Steve'll have this—he's actually pretty handy with it, you should've seen him swinging it around yesterday—we'll watch out for each other, it'll all go fine."

He slung the shield onto his arm and hoisted it up. After finishing up at Steve's apartment yesterday they'd gone back to Tony's to suit Steve up for the trip as best they could. Tony had a couple of things lying around, but it was Steve who'd found the shield and found it more to his liking than any of the weapons Tony was offering. He'd given it some practice throws in Tony's gym and they'd both been surprised by just how quickly he picked it up.

Finding something for him to wear had been a little more difficult, but Tony had remembered a uniform he'd designed for Rhodey a while back enhanced with carbon-polymers that would, according to Tony, withstand the average German bayonet. Steve was a little taller and a lot bulkier than Rhodey, but it was all they could find for him on short notice. Tony had promised to design him his own as incentive if he joined the team officially; Steve was finding it harder and harder to resist.

"So we're just flying right into enemy territory?" Rhodey raised an eyebrow. "You don't think there's _someone _we ought to run that by?"

"Easier to get forgiveness than permission." Tony grinned. "Besides, I think we already crossed the border a couple miles back. Too late now."

"You know, you were supposed to be the one who helped me settle him down." Rhodey raised an eyebrow at Steve.

"Those are our men out there." Steve shook his head. "Someone's got to go after them. If not us, then who?"

"No wonder you two get along." Rhodey chuckled. "How long until we drop?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes." Tony jerked a thumb at the back end of the plane, where the armors were waiting for them. "Might be a good time to suit up."

The drop went well; they were fairly certain they hadn't been seen, and they could see well enough above to know that Tony's civilian pilot friend had gotten away. The armors weren't great for walking, but it was only about half a mile. Once they started approaching the base, Steve caught sight of a convoy of trucks headed inside and a plan started to form.

"If I hop on back one of those I bet I can slip into the compound undetected," Steve whispered to them, "Give me twenty minutes to see what I can do inside. Come in then, or if the alarms go off."

"Steve—" Tony started.

"We bust in and open fire, they open fire back. I sneak in, we've got half a chance at getting our guys free first," Steve insisted rationally. Tony just stifled a chuckle.

"I agree, relax. I was gonna say to take this with you." He detached something from his suit and held it out to Steve. "It's a tracker. Twist the top to turn it on and it'll relay your coordinates to me. Use it when you've got the prisoners out and we're good to go in. Or if you need us earlier, obviously."

"And if things go sideways and we get split up or the tracker gets busted, we meet back up a mile out, where we landed," Rhodey added.

"Got it." Steve nodded, standing up as the last truck of the convoy approached. "See you soon, shellheads."

"Go get 'em, Cap." Steve couldn't see Tony's expression through the faceplate, but he didn't need to see the smile to hear it in his lover's voice.

He left the cover of the trees and took off running after the truck. He caught up quickly, grabbed the back end and swung up into it. Two foreign soldiers dressed in all black rushed him, but Steve took them out in the space of a few seconds. He didn't have much by way of experience, but the serum was doing wonders for his reflexes. The goons clearly relied too heavily on their guns anyway.

There wasn't any sort of inspection of the trucks, so he passed through the gates no problem. He waited until someone came to check the back, then knocked the goon out with his shield and snuck inside. The compound was massive, but it was dark outside and poorly lit within, with enough nooks and crannies that he could get around without raising any alarms so long as he was careful. He wasn't entirely certain what all he was seeing, lots of glowing blue lights and complicated devices; he snagged one of the smaller ones for Tony to take apart later. If they could figure out what it was, they could inform the army and give someone the upper hand.

He could admit, there was a part of him getting a thrill out of this. An inappropriate thrill, sure, since he should probably take sneaking around an enemy base a little more seriously, but it was…fun was the wrong word. Exhilarating, though. Exhilarating was a good word. He'd barely ever gotten a chance to put his muscles to use—good, real use—before this. They'd kicked him out before they'd even given him a chance, let him prove his worth. So yeah, there was something more than a little satisfying about running around behind enemy lines, socking some Nazi's and rescuing some of his own. He wasn't meant for dancing around in frilly corsets and garters, he was meant to be a damned soldier.

He eventually found the prisoners in an underground cell block. He took out the guards on duty and stole their keys, though the soldiers he was rescuing didn't seem particularly enthused.

"Who're you supposed to be?" someone called up.

Steve gave a half-shrug. Good a thing to call himself as any: "Captain America."

He unlocked each of the cells quick as he could, only pausing as he came to the last. There was only one soldier inside it, as opposed to the usual three.

"Is there anywhere else I should be looking for prisoners?" he asked as he let the man out.

"Just the one guy," one of the others provided with a dismal shake of his head, "But he got carted off to some isolation ward up in the factory somewhere. No one's ever come back from it."

"Alright." Steve nodded, directing his next words to the group at large as he pulled out the tracker Tony had given him. "The tree line is northwest, eighty yards past the gate. I'm calling in my backup, two men in armor with big guns that'll be pointed at the Nazi's. They're gonna be on your side, so don't shoot. Now get out fast and raise some hell, I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find."

"You know what you're doing?" One of them eyed him distrustfully.

"Not really." Steve shrugged. "But I've got some friends with pretty big guns and that's good enough for me."

He took off down the hallway before anyone could give him any more lip about it. He could hear gunfire and explosions up above within minutes, but he stuck to the underground and stayed out of sight as he made his way to back to the factory area, anywhere that might be considered isolated. The hallways were a maze and it took longer than he'd have liked, but he eventually found a corridor labeled isolation. There was only one room, a lab of sorts. He recognized the man lying on the table immediately.

"Bucky!"

He ran over to him, but Bucky just kept mumbling incoherently, staring up at him with wide eyes, mouth agape. Steve undid his restraints and leaned over him, gave him a good shake.

"It's me, it's Steve."

"Steve…" Bucky gave a brief, dazed sort of smile.

"Yeah, come on." Steve helped haul him up. They had to get out of here while they still could. Bucky grabbed his arm, stared up at him like he was some kind of alien.

"Weren't you smaller?"

Steve chuckled, turning to go back out. He caught sight of a map in the corner, five black triangles marking…something. That could be important; he committed it to memory, then slung his arm under Bucky and helped lead him. "Come on."

"What happened to you?" Bucky was still staring at him.

"I joined the army."

"Did it hurt?"

"A little."

"Is it permanent?" Bucky had a lot of questions. Steve really hoped he didn't ask what he'd been up to all this time, that was definitely something he'd rather go over when they weren't likely to get shot at.

"So far."

Right as they made it to the bridge of the factory, things started exploding. Great. Steve looked around for some kind of immediate out, but couldn't find one.

"Is that real?" Bucky's voice drew his attention, and he followed his gaze; red and gold caught his eye and he smiled.

"That's backup." Steve waved a hand to draw Tony's attention.

"What is it I hear you're calling yourself?" someone called from across the bridge, and Steve turned with his shield hoisted. He didn't recognize them and they sure didn't look friendly. "Captain America? How exciting."

Tony landed behind him, facing their opponent and opening the faceplate. "Who the hell are you?"

"We have a mutual friend, the Captain and I," The man mused with a look at Steve. "Dr. Erskine."

"Schmidt," Steve realized, putting a name to the face. Erskine's first subject. He started walking out along the bridge and Schmidt came to meet him halfway.

"Precisely." Schmidt eyed him. "You're not exactly an improvement, but…still. Impressive."

Steve decked him.

"You've got no idea." Tony smirked from behind him.

"Haven't I?" Schmidt sneered, then snapped forward with a punch of his own.

Steve brought the shield up in time, but the force of the punch still sent him reeling. Steve reached for his gun, but Schmidt got in a blow before he could. This one sent him flying back and knocked the gun from his hand, sending it skidding across the bridge and off the edge. Schmidt took another step forward, only to get blasted back by a repulsor blast just over Steve's head; Steve was about to use the distraction to go in for another strike when Schmidt's lackey pressed a button and the bridge separated, splitting them apart.

"No matter what lies Erskine told you," Schmidt spat, "I was his greatest success!"

He then reached across to tear at something along his neck, peeling back what looked like…was that his _skin? _He kept pulling, ripping off what Steve hoped to hell was a mask and chucking it into the fires below. What remained could only have been bone, red and menacing and like something straight out of a horror film.

"You don't have one of those, do you?" Bucky asked beside him.

"Christ." Steve glanced over his shoulder; Tony's expression was nothing short of horrified. "Tell me your face doesn't do that."

"You are deluded, Captain," Schmidt announced before Steve could answer. "You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind. Unlike you, I embrace it proudly, without fear!"

"Then how come you're running?" Steve challenged.

Even as Schmidt spoke of embracing his lack of humanity, he was stepping into some sort of elevator. He didn't answer, so Steve glanced at the bridge gap again. Maybe he could—

"Time to move, Steve." Tony grabbed Steve with one arm and Bucky with the other, then took off up towards where the ceiling had already caved in and would give them a clear shot out. "We'll get him next time."

They made it out maybe all of three seconds before the whole place went down. Rhodey was waiting for them with the freed 107th where they'd agreed, about a mile out. Most of them were banged up in some way or another since there'd been an enormous firefight—Dum Dum in particular couldn't stop talking about the tank he'd driven right through the fence, the one now sitting right smack in the center of the clearing—and fairly exhausted from it all, so they agreed to camp out for the night and head for home in the morning. There wasn't anything to eat or sleep on, but they were soldiers and they made do without complaint.

Steve helped Tony and Rhodey out of their suits while the men settled in. Tony had the armors mechanized enough to compress themselves into big hunks of metal roughly the size of a large suitcase. It wasn't convenient by any measure, but at least this way they could fit into the tank's hull for transport.

"I'm not tired. Won't be all night, probably," Steve said once everyone started finding spots to catch some shuteye. It was the truth; the serum diminished his need for sleep once his adrenaline got going. He wouldn't sleep for hours, not after all they'd just accomplished. "I can stay up, keep watch."

"I'll join you," Tony offered. There were still men within earshot they didn't know, so he added lightly, "I won't find any rest tonight either, and four eyes are better than two."

"I'll come with," Bucky threw in, "It'll be years before I sleep again."

"Great." Tony's smile went a little thin, but Steve was glad. Bucky had been quiet the whole way there, almost unnervingly so.

"You doing alright?" Steve asked him.

"Yeah, Stevie, I'm doing fine." Bucky shot him a grin. It rang a little false, but Steve didn't comment. "Not as good as you though, apparently. Supersoldier, huh? That's a hell of a title."

Steve could feel Tony's eyes on him as they headed a little ways away from the camp, in the direction any enemies would theoretically be coming from. Tony knew how he'd once felt about Bucky, Steve hadn't kept that any sort of secret. He hadn't felt that way about his friend in a long time, even before Tony had been in the picture, but he knew how Tony's mind worked and he knew Tony was wondering now if he was a second choice. If, now that he could, Steve might choose Bucky instead. Still, Steve knew that even if Bucky had been an option, he wouldn't hesitate to choose Tony; Bucky was his best friend, always would be, but Bucky wasn't who he was in love with. Tony knew that too. He just needed to be reminded.

"Yeah, it is." Steve stopped. "Buck, Tony and I have some quick business to go over, it'll just take a minute. Go on ahead without us, alright?"

"Sure." Bucky shrugged, kept on walking. "Meet you up ahead."

Steve waited until Bucky was out of earshot. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying, who's worrying?" Tony gave a stiff little shrug, so Steve glanced ahead at Bucky's back, then behind them in the direction of the camp. He couldn't see it, so he shot one last look at Bucky, who still had his back turned, then kissed Tony to unwind that bit of tension.

"Bucky's my best friend, sweetheart." Steve brushed a bit of his hair back tenderly. "I love him like you love Rhodey; he's my brother, but he's not you and nobody ever could be. Don't worry so much. I'm yours for as long as you want me, remember?"

The way Tony looked at him then, grateful and hopeful and so utterly besotted, made Steve's breath catch in his throat. He took Tony's face in his hands, pressed their foreheads together and hoped he could convey even an ounce of how very much he loved Tony in return with a similar look. He must've succeeded, because Tony softened almost immediately and ducked his head so he could lay it against Steve's shoulder. Steve brought his arms down and around Tony to embrace him properly.

"I'd like a little time to catch up with Bucky alone," Steve said after a minute or two, "You gonna be okay with that?"

"Yeah." Tony kissed his cheek. "Go catch up. I'll try and get some sleep."

"I love you." Steve tugged him back by the hand for a real kiss.

"I love you too." Tony smiled, squeezed his hand once before letting it drop.

His talk with Bucky went pretty well, all things considered. He wouldn't elaborate on what exactly they'd done to him, wasn't the type to gab and neither of them were in the mood for any kind of deep conversation anyway, but Steve remembered the dazed look in Bucky's eyes when he'd found him, the way he'd been muttering nonsense. That damn Schmidt had done something to his head. Bucky had always been resilient, though; he may not be truly okay for a while yet, but he'd land on his feet. He always did.

"So what've you been up to, if they kicked you out?" Bucky diverted the subject. Steve let him. "Must've been hard to get a job, you could barely get one back when."

"Pretty hard, yeah." Steve sighed. There was really no good way to say it. "I was in the army too long, when they wiped my record I had too much time off unaccounted for and too little skills to begin with. I tried, Buck, but I really…really couldn't get just about anything."

"How'd you get from unemployable to running around with Stark?"

"A string of impossibilities, honestly." Steve shook his head ruefully. Then, he glanced up. "You know about Tony?"

"Course I do." Bucky shrugged. "Tony Stark, intrepid adventurer? We get the mags. Not while we were locked up back there, obviously, but before. His adventures were something else."

"Wait til you hear the ones Marvel's never learns about." Steve chuckled.

"How'd you meet a guy like him? Didn't pin you for a star-chaser."

He'd never actually told Bucky about his urges; he'd never imagined he'd have to. Confronted with the moment, he didn't quite know how to go about it. He considered lying, briefly; back when he'd gotten the job, he'd sworn to himself he'd never tell a soul, especially not Bucky. A lot had changed since then. Steve had changed. He didn't want to lie about who he was, not to his best friend, not to the guy who knew him better than anyone. Tony knew him incredibly well for how short a time they'd known each other, but he and Bucky had grown up together. They were brothers. Bucky knew him in a way that only came from years and years of firsthand experience.

The lie was right there on Steve's tongue, simple and easy—_I work with him, I got a job doing art for Marvel's—_and Bucky would never know. But Steve couldn't do that.

Not to Bucky, who sure as hell didn't deserve to be lied to and would probably smell it on him anyway. Not to Tony, who had done absolutely nothing but love and support him, who didn't deserve to be denied in that way. Mostly though, Steve couldn't do it to himself; he'd come this far, hadn't he?

"Like I said, I couldn't get a job," Steve said at last, "Not a normal one, anyway. But I was running around in this newly muscled body, with all this dexterity and flexibility—"

"Stevie." Bucky caught his eye. "Tell me you didn't."

"Not—I didn't—" Steve still wasn't sure the best way to phrase it. Bucky always appreciated the straightforward, so he went ahead and said, "I never had sex with anyone. I signed on as a dancer."

"At…one of those places?" Bucky made a strange face, like he was unsure what to do with the information presented to him.

"It was all I could get." Steve forced himself to keep talking. "And it wasn't bad. Wasn't great, but it wasn't bad. Met some interesting people. We're actually pretty good friends these days."

"With strippers." Bucky digested this. "You're friends with strippers."

"I've heard better words."

"Any girls?" Bucky mused.

"Yeah." Steve laughed, immensely relieved by the predictable reaction. "Yeah, a couple. The one I work with would actually probably like you."

"You know you're gonna have to introduce me when I get leave, right?" Bucky grinned at him, bumped his leg. "We've all done shit to get by, Steve. Quit lookin' at me like I'm gonna hang you."

"Not yet." Steve blew out a huff of air. Bucky wouldn't really turn him in, he knew. Still, the threat of it, of the kind of trouble he and Tony could get in for something that these days Steve only ever associated with bliss, still unnerved him if he really considered it. He tried not to. "I'm not finished. I met Tony there, at the club."

"Tony's…" Bucky glanced back in the direction of the camp, like Tony might be lurking around. "He's one?"

"We both are."

Steve waited as Bucky processed that. He didn't begrudge him the way he leaned away a little or how he pulled his knee from Steve's. He would have done the same if Bucky had said anything close to this to him, a year ago.

"You're…and with…?" Bucky shook his head. "Stevie, you don't have to do something like that. The dames, they'll look at you now, hell, they'll eat you up—"

"It's not about—"

"Let me take you out," Bucky insisted, a little desperately, "You and me, a couple of pretty ladies, we'll hit the town first day I get back. You'll see, it'll be great—"

"Bucky." Steve threw a little more steel into his voice to get Bucky to stop talking. "It's not about that. It's not that I can't find women who want me. It's that I want him."

"That place messed with your head," Bucky assured him, "Working at a place like that, it'd mess with anyone's head. How're you gonna know what you want when all you've got around you is that? You just need to remember you've got options—"

"Army's all men," Steve pointed out, "You wanna sleep with any of them?"

"Don't say shit like that, of course I don't want—"

"And I don't want to sleep with Tony just because I've met a couple men who sleep with men. Or women who sleep with women, for that matter."

"That's hot—"

"And that's a double standard," Steve snapped, Natasha's voice in his ears. He paused, took a deep breath. Rubbed a hand to his forehead. "I'm not confused, Buck. I am…the least confused I've probably ever been."

"You're not making any sense."

"I felt like this before I started working there. Long before, I just—I never let it get any farther than the deepest confines of my head. But working there, meeting Tony, becoming friends with the people I have…it's changed my perspective on things. This isn't something I should _have _to confine. Not in private, anyway. Not in front of Tony, or our friends. And I want that to include you. I_ need _it to."

"Doing that kind of thing…" Bucky shook his head. "Steve, it's not worth the trouble it'll bring you—"

"I love him, Bucky," Steve told him, "And he loves me. That's worth anything. This isn't temporary and it's not something that'll change if you throw enough pretty girls my way. I don't love him because I'm confused and lusting after the wrong genitalia, I love him because he's compassionate and adventuresome and more brilliant than I can even wrap my head around. I love him because he challenges me, because he encourages me, because when I'm with him I feel like I can do anything in the world and I know I do the same for him. There's no one that could replace him for me, man or woman. And I know that's hard for you to believe, I _get _that, but I need you to try and believe that I mean this because I need you in my life too, Bucky. I've missed you like hell."

Bucky watched him throughout his increasingly impassioned speech in complete silence. Steve hadn't meant to get so carried away, to explain quite so much to Bucky at once, but he could remember what he'd once thought about _those people_. He remembered how strange and unnatural he'd found it, how he'd viewed what they did as nothing more than a dirty attraction good men didn't give in to. He'd never thought of it as having the potential for love; it had always been just some sort of physical temptation. What he had with Tony went so far beyond that Steve couldn't even find the words. Tony could have, but Tony wasn't here; passion was all Steve could muster.

"Think I'm gonna finish up watch on my own," Bucky said eventually, standing, "I'll find a better spot further ahead."

Steve knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Bucky—"

"Just—stop." Bucky held up a hand. "Hell of a lot to lay on a guy, Rogers."

"I didn't want to lie to you—"

"Yeah, well, it'd have been nice if you had," Bucky snapped, then seemed to regret it. He shook his head, looked away. "I don't know. Maybe not. Just let me think, alright?"

Steve nodded mutely. Bucky turned and went on without him. He rested his head in his hands once Bucky had gone, rubbed them over his face in exasperation. That had gone horribly. Not that he could've really expected it to go well, but Bucky was right. It'd been a hell of a lot to lay on his shoulders, especially so soon after all that had happened with HYDRA. Bucky had just escaped captivity for Christ's sake. Steve was an idiot.

He headed back towards the camp; he wanted Tony. He wanted to hear Tony reassure him Bucky would come around, wanted the warmth of his hands around Steve's and the way he always made everything sound so simple and easy. The future always looked brighter when it was Tony was talking about it. Tony got too little sleep as it was so Steve wouldn't wake him if he was sleeping, but he knew Tony and he knew chances were he'd still be up.

As he'd thought, he found Tony sitting on a log by the dwindling fire. He came and sat beside him, close enough to bump their shoulders and knees. The others were too nearby for anything more.

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"It's amazing how quickly you become accustomed to sleeping with someone else," Tony commented. If anyone overheard them, Steve supposed it was fair enough to think Tony would have a dame back home. "Got a little cold out here without my bedmate. Figured I'd warm up. You're supposed to be catching up, what happened to that?"

"I told him," Steve answered quietly.

"How much?"

"Just about all of it." Steve sighed. "I spared the details, but he's got the gist."

"How'd that go?" The sympathy in Tony's voice was clear enough; he knew how it'd gone.

"Can we…" Steve glanced out at the empty forest. "Go somewhere else?"

"Of course." Tony stood.

They walked away from the camp, opposite of the way Bucky had gone. They didn't go far, just enough to put a safe distance between them and the camp. They could still see the soft glow of firelight in the distance from where they wound up. Tony pulled him into an embrace the second he could. The night air was cold, but Tony was warm and snug in his arms. He buried his face in Tony's shoulder. If he could stay like this forever, somehow, that would be perfect.

"He thinks I'm confused," Steve murmured eventually, "Thinks it's got something to do with working at the club. He was fine with that, with the job I took, it was only once he thought it meant anything about me that he reacted."

"Rhodey wasn't very enthused when I first told him either," Tony admitted, "It takes time. And it's harder to wrap your head around, I think, when you're not the one going through it. Let him sort it out. He'll come around, honey, I know he will. Have a little faith in him."

"You're right." Steve sighed and held Tony a little closer.

"We've been over this, darling." Tony smiled, pressed a kiss to his temple. "I'm always right."


	10. Chapter 10

Tony was awakened by a kick to the back.

"Ow," he complained, "Watch your feet, Steve."

"Not Steve," someone grunted, "Get up, we're havin' a talk."

Tony rolled over to find Steve's friend staring down at him moodily. He considered arguing, but he was fairly certain he remembered Steve mentioning the guy was a highly-trained sniper. He sat up instead and looked for Steve; he was dead asleep a little ways away.

"Just you and me, pal." Bucky gestured out to the woods. Tony eyed the rifle strapped to his back. "Come on."

"Is this a request or an offing?"

"It's a talk."

"Will this talk involve bullets?"

"No, it's not going to involve—" Bucky cut himself off with an aggravated sigh, like he couldn't believe he was even having this conversation. "I'm just staying prepared, Stark, we're still in enemy territory. I'm not going to shoot you."

"You looked like you were considering it, had to cover my bases." Tony stood up, brushed the dirt off his pants and followed Bucky wherever it was the guy was headed.

"I did consider it," Bucky told him. Tony faltered, before he caught Bucky's little snort of what might've been laughter. He probably just had that dry humor, like Steve. He was kidding. Probably. "Wouldn't solve anything. Plus it'd piss Steve off."

"I'm not really enjoying this conversation. Does it get better?"

"Not really." Bucky shook his head. "Here's fine."

"Fine for—?" Tony stopped as Bucky grabbed him by the shirtfront, hoisted him up and gave a good shake.

"Listen close." A muscle in Bucky's jaw jumped. "What you're doing? The way you've got Steve talking? You're gonna get yourselves lynched you keep running around the way you do."

"And apparently you'll be first in line. Want to maybe put me down, caveman?" Tony pursed his lips.

Bucky shoved him by way of releasing him. So much for a chat. "You know what he said to me?"

"Not the specifics, no." Tony brushed himself off.

"He said he shouldn't have to _confine _himself. I don't know where that talk's coming from, but I know he didn't talk like that before he met you. He knew how the world worked."

"I'm sorry, are you accusing me of encouraging him to be himself?" Tony rolled his eyes. "Real horrid accusation, there."

"I'm _accusing _you of getting his head all wound up with these crazy ideas. He's not—Steve's not like you, he can't just—"

"He's not some confused little baby, Barnes, he knows what it is we're doing—"

"I'm not talking about that," Bucky snapped, "That's a whole other can of worms, I'm talking about the fact that he is not _like you. _He doesn't have money and connections and some fancy magazine company ready to swoop in and cover his tracks if people find out he gets his hands dirty. He can't just run around doing things like this and expect people'll turn a blind eye to him like they do to you."

"And you really think if anything happened I'd just, what, hang him out to dry?"

"I think you rich people can get away with whatever the hell you want. I think you throw enough money around and there isn't a damn law in the world that applies to you, but laws apply to people like Steve. The law goes after people like Steve. People who don't have a penny to their name, people who don't have anyone to watch out for them—"

"I watch out for him—"

"While it's easy, sure," Bucky snapped, barely letting him get a word in, "But if you two get caught and it comes down to keeping your cushy little job at Marvel's or saving Steve's hide, you don't think I know exactly what you're gonna do? Steve may try to believe the best in people but I know how this goes, I know the second you get caught with your pants around your ankles you're gonna flash some cash and leave him to rot and if you think I'm gonna let that happen—"

"_Hey,"_ Tony insisted firmly when Bucky didn't show any signs of slowing, advancing on him to jab a finger at his chest, "Let's get one thing straight, you and me: when it comes down to it, there is _nothing_ I wouldn't give up to save Steve. If I get caught with my 'pants around my ankles' as you so eloquently put it, I'm either getting us both off or I'm taking the fall but I am not for one second going to let Steve _'rot' _anywhere, you understand me?"

"You better mean every damn word," Bucky warned him, not intimidated in the least, "Or our next talk won't be so friendly."

"More's the pity, this one was such a picnic." Tony sneered. He glanced back towards the camp; he knew what Steve would want. "You know, it'd be nice if we could at least try and get along."

"You care more about getting your rocks off than you do about his wellbeing." Bucky clenched his teeth. "We were never gonna get along."

"That's not even remotely true," Tony scoffed, "And you'd know it if you listened to a word I was saying instead of dismissing me for being rich or gay or whatever else it is that's got your panties in a bunch. Picture me as a woman if that's what helps you sleep at night, but this isn't some little rich boy's deviancy experiment; I'd love Steve in whatever form he came in. This one happens to have some complications. We're dealing with it."

"You're worse than he is," Bucky muttered, "Damn idealists, the both of you. Societal rejection and possible imprisonment, that's your idea of 'some complications'?"

"I don't tend to concern myself with how society views me. As for imprisonment, we're not fucking stupid. We're not making time out in broad daylight. He told you because you're his friend and your opinion matters to him, but we don't have plans to tell anyone else. So unless you're feeling vindictive enough towards me to damn us both, I think we'll manage just fine."

"And how long do you think this all can really last?" Bucky leaned back a little. He didn't exactly soften—didn't soften at all, really—but he didn't have quite the hard-ass look about him anymore.

"If I have any say in it at all, forever," Tony told him honestly. Bucky looked away. His face didn't exactly scream that he believed him. Tony considered him a moment, assessed him, before coming to a conclusion. "I could tell you how much I loved him, but honestly, I doubt it'd help you sleep any better so I'm going to tell you this: I'm rich beyond your wildest dreams. I once owned an extremely profitable company I've now got a large amount of shares in, I'm a famous adventurer who gets paid to travel, and frankly outside of that I don't need much. It'd take me lifetimes to use it all up. Beyond money, I've got a near-inexhaustible network of connections around the globe; in New York alone I know the police commissioner, most judges, and have the most highly sought after lawyer on retainer. The world's my oyster, Barnes. You're worried about Steve's wellbeing and I understand that, but I'm not a threat. If anything, I'm about the best line of defense you'll ever find."

Bucky eyed him a long moment, then nodded. "I can work with that. You'd better take care of him, Stark."

"I don't know if you realize, but I basically amounted to funding and back-up on this rescue." Tony chuckled. "As the man himself would be quick to remind you, Steve can take care of himself."

"I'm all too aware he thinks he can." Bucky gave a soft snort. "I meant you'd better treat him right, if you're really set on…whatever it is you're doing."

"It's called a relationship," Tony corrected in amusement, "And I'll be sure and tell Steve you gave me a very enthusiastic blessing."

"'Blessing' is a strong word."

"It'd make him smile though."

Bucky glanced away again stubbornly. "Tell him whatever you want."

"Well, this has been a delight." Tony clapped a hand to Bucky's shoulder. Bucky raised a dangerous eyebrow. Tony removed his hand. "Let's never, ever do it again."

"Agreed," Bucky grunted.

* * *

"—and then he hugged me and called me his brother in arms."

"Did he now?" Steve raised an amused albeit disbelieving eyebrow.

They'd set off at dawn for the camp, he, Tony and Bucky leading the way; Rhodey had been eager to drive the tank. Bucky had walked with them fairly silently for the first few miles, before ducking back to talk with someone else. The moment he had, Tony had started spinning some tale about how Bucky had hauled him off into the woods last night. Probably true, but the story became increasingly ridiculous the more Steve tried to get to the truth of what exactly was said.

"Did I mention he cried a little?" Tony added, "Manly tears, of course."

"Of course." Steve chuckled. "And if I ask Bucky, his version will be the same?"

"Eh." Tony waved a non-committal hand. "He might try and sound tough. You know, to feel like more of a man after all the sobbing."

"I thought they were 'manly tears'?" Steve laughed.

"Manly sobs, really. Couple of whimpers in there, I think."

"I see. Maybe I should call him back over then, I'm sure you miss your 'brother in arms'." Steve nodded sagely. "In fact, I should probably hang back, leave you be, let you two have some time without me being a third wheel—"

"Don't leave me alone with him." Tony grabbed his arm, eyes going wide.

Steve laughed again. "You know he wouldn't really do anything."

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Brothers in arms might have been a bit of an exaggeration, then?" Steve teased.

"Possibly," Tony admitted with a grin, "He did give me his blessing, though."

"Yeah?" Steve smiled.

"Yeah." Tony smiled back. "We got ourselves sorted out well enough. He's not my biggest fan, but I think I managed to at least convince him I'd be useful."

"Useful?"

"I've got money, fame, resources…" Tony shrugged. "I think it helps him to know there's not a whole lot of trouble I couldn't get you out of."

"I don't need your protection, Tony." Steve shot him a look.

Bucky was over-protective enough as it was, he didn't need Tony getting like that too. He liked what they had, liked that he could say things like that he was going to infiltrate a HYDRA base and Tony would nod and offer him a tracker. Tony was there to catch him, to back him up if he needed it, but didn't doubt Steve's inherent capabilities; Steve loved that about him.

"For the record, I told him that," Tony offered and Steve relaxed minutely, "But I get where he's coming from, too. If Rhodey were off halfway across the world doing something likely to get himself thrown in jail with someone I didn't know or trust, I'd sure as hell worry. Less, all things considered, but still."

"Fair enough," Steve admitted.

Tony lasted an admirable ten miles before he started to wear a little thin; to be fair, he was marching with soldiers and they weren't walking at a particularly leisurely pace. Steve would've liked to carry him, but it wasn't an option so Tony dropped back and joined Rhodey in the tank. Bucky approached Steve soon afterwards and Steve couldn't resist a bit of teasing.

"So I hear you and Tony are the best of pals now."

Bucky snorted. "That what he told you?"

"I can dream, can't I?"

"He's not bad, Steve." Bucky gave a half-hearted shrug. "Just not sure if I trust him. But you do?"

"With my life," Steve assured without hesitation. He trusted Tony with much more than his life, but that was a sentiment Tony would appreciate more than Bucky.

"Then I guess that's good enough for me."

"Sure you don't want to wave your gun at him a little more?" Steve teased. Bucky made an exasperated sound.

"I did _not _wave a gun at him."

"The way he tells it you hauled him out with a gun at his head and both kneecaps. Not sure where you got the third hand, but he tells it quite convincingly."

Bucky gave a snort that Steve knew was him trying to hide a laugh. "I don't know what you see in that guy."

"Never a boring minute with him." Steve smiled.

"Sounds like someone else I know." Bucky shook his head with a hint of a smirk. "A scrawny little brat who couldn't seem to keep out of trouble. Now I hear he's off invading enemy territory with a couple idiots in tin suits."

"Saved your sorry ass, didn't I?" Steve grinned. They walked in silence for a moment of so after that, their last conversation still rattling around in Steve's head. "So you and me…we're alright?"

"Don't be an idiot." Bucky bumped their shoulders. "We're always gonna be alright. That snarky little prick back there's gonna take some getting used to, but yeah, Steve. We're alright."

"You sure?" Steve glanced at him. "We can cry it out, if you want."

"Why would we—?" Bucky's brows pinched together in confusion, then straightened as he realized Steve was kidding. Steve laughed. Bucky scowled. "I really, really hate that guy."

Steve took pity on him and changed the subject. It'd been a while since they'd seen each other; they had plenty to catch up on that wasn't quite so touchy. They managed to make the walk in a day, albeit a long one, and they reached the camp just before sundown. He and Bucky led the troops in, where they were received with startled but pleased cheers of excitement as people started to recognize one another. People started pouring out of their tents to greet them and Steve caught sight of his old CO among them. He acknowledged him with a salute; Colonel Phillips just stared back at him in the closest thing to stunned silence Steve had ever seen from him.

"Some of these men need medical attention," he informed him, "I'd surrender myself for disciplinary action, but I believe you already kicked me out."

"That we did," Colonel Phillips managed, "I see you didn't take to it well."

"No, sir."

"You and I ought to have a chat, Rogers. See if certain…" Colonel Phillips looked him over, seemed to recognize the mistake he'd made. "Reassessments can't be made."

"Yes, sir." Steve nodded. Colonel Phillips turned to go. When he did, Steve couldn't believe who took his place.

"Agent Carter?"

"I see you've adjusted to civilian life well." She stepped closer.

He remembered how she'd come right up to him after Project Rebirth, touched his chest with the same surprised but marveling look on her face she had now. He remembered how she'd made him feel, visible when he'd still been nothing but a twig. He remembered thinking he might've finally found the right partner.

"Hey!" Bucky hollered to the men before Steve could draw up any kind of response to her, "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

The crowd erupted into cheers. Steve felt hands grab his shoulders from behind and give a good shake.

"Captain America," Tony's voice came from just behind his ear, "I admit, it's growing on me."

"Agent Carter, this is Tony." Steve stepped aside so Tony could step forward. Steve bumped their shoulders together, got as close to him as he could without being strange. Peggy's proximity was making him nervous. He knew the way they'd left things there'd been hope for more on both their parts. Though she wasn't the type to just lay one on him, there _was_ cause for celebration at the moment and she was awful close. "I've been travelling with him. This whole thing was his idea in the first place, I just did some legwork."

"By which he means he took over my whole operation and we're all the better for it." Anyone else would've missed it, but Steve caught the flicker of recognition in Tony's eyes before he smoothed it over into polite cordiality and extended a hand. "Tony Stark. Pleasure to meet you, Agent Carter. Friend of the Captain here?"

"Something like that." Peggy smiled at Tony, then at him. "I was part of the Project Rebirth team."

"So you saw him before?" Tony asked eagerly, "You wouldn't happen to have pictures, would you? He's horrible, I know he's got them but he refuses to share."

"That's really not necessary—" Steve began.

"I might have one about." Peggy chuckled. "I'll see to it you get a copy."

"Oh, I like you." Tony grinned.

"Great." Steve sighed.

The next few days were a blur of activity.

He and Tony were set to be awarded the medal of valor; nobody acknowledged Rhodey, so they didn't acknowledge the ceremony. They spent their time in an Allied bunker in England instead, Steve recreating the map of bases he'd seen in the HYDRA base, Tony taking apart the device Steve had brought back for him, Rhodey collaborating with some of the men he'd fought with in the rescue. They were intending to put together a team to go after the rest of the HYDRA bases; they'd be doing it with or without military support, but they'd said nothing so far since they were certain Colonel Phillips would come to the same conclusion and ask it of them anyway. They were right.

"This one was here in Poland, near the Baltic…" Steve stretched across the map to make a mark, putting the finishing touches on it while Peggy, Colonel Phillips and a number of others looked on. "And then the sixth one was…about…here. Thirty, forty miles West of the Maginot Line. I just got a quick look."

"Well." Peggy smiled. "Nobody's perfect."

"These are the weapon factories we know about," he continued without addressing her comment, "Sergeant Barnes said that HYDRA shipped all the parts to another facility that isn't on this map."

He wasn't sure how to speak to Peggy anymore. To be perfectly honest, he'd never really learned how to speak to her in the first place. Tony might've been more help with that, but he was both busy with the HYDRA device and surprisingly blasé when it came to Peggy. They hadn't gotten much time together lately anyway; too many military personnel running around. He trusted Steve though, he'd made that very clear in the few moments they had found, which would've been a good thing had it not also meant Steve was completely in the dark about how to handle the situation. Should he even address it? He and Peggy had never officially _been _anything. There had been some fairly obvious hope, but it seemed awkward and strange to bring up something previously unspoken simply to shut it down. Still. The longer it went on, the worse he felt about it.

"Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6," Colonel Phillips instructed, "I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base."

"What about us?" Peggy asked.

"We are gonna set a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass," Colonel Phillips declared, "What do you say, Rogers? You drew a map, you think you can wipe HYDRA off of it?"

He wasn't, officially speaking, a soldier. He had quit his job though—Fury had been both unimpressed and unsurprised, told him he'd already been replaced—and called his friends to let them know he'd be gone a lot longer than he'd thought. They were supportive, of course; Steve missed them already. The army hadn't asked him to re-enlist though and he doubted they would. He was more useful when he wasn't tied to them, wasn't held by the same restrictions. He was glad for it. He would've hated to tell them no.

"Yes, sir." Steve nodded. "I'll need a team."

"We're already putting together the best men," Colonel Phillips informed him.

"With all due respect, sir, I've already got them."

"Stark and Rhodes." Colonel Philips eyed him.

"Among others. We'd like to bring along some members of the 107th we fought with."

"Take who you need," Colonel Phillips conceded, "And go check on Stark for me, I haven't heard back from him about that device you brought in. Labs are on level eight."

"Yes, sir." Steve nodded, eagerly setting off for it.

He knew Tony was working in their lab space, but he hadn't yet gotten a chance to see it. Staying in a military building made them both too jumpy; they were well known to be friends and travelling companions so they were alright spending time in each others rooms during the day, but even when alone they hadn't done or said anything untoward. Tony was convinced there were cameras and Steve was inclined to believe him. Better safe than sorry, regardless. They'd be on the road again soon enough, they'd find time. Still, he hadn't seen as much of Tony as he'd have liked lately, certainly never in his element. The excuse was welcome.

He reached level eight and found the entrance empty, save for a blonde soldier reading a paper.

"I'm looking for Tony?" he inquired when she didn't look up. "Tony Stark?"

"He's in with the others, running a test."

"Right." Steve glanced around for a door labeled 'testing area' or something like it. He didn't see one.

"Of course…you're welcome to wait." She finally looked up at him.

He nodded and took a seat of sorts leaning against a nearby desk. He'd have preferred to go in, but he supposed the military would be more stringent about who could see their experiments than Tony would.

"I read about what you did." She held the paper up with a smile. The title _400 Prisoners Liberated _stared back at him.

"Oh, the—yeah. Collaborative effort." He smiled back. "Just doing what needed to be done."

"Sounded like more than that." She set the paper aside, lounged in her chair to give him a less than demure look. He recognized that look; he'd seen it on Natasha, before she dropped into men's laps. "You saved nearly four hundred men."

"Really, it's not a big deal." Steve shrugged her gratitude off uncomfortably, glancing around the corner of the shelves. The testing area was likely behind one of those doors, he could just go over and open each one until he found it—

"Tell that to their wives." She stood now, walking over with purpose, seduction in the sway of her hips. Really, he could probably just shout for Tony and Tony'd holler back at him—

"I, uh, I don't think they were all married," he said eventually when she didn't seem to be stopping. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back a little, but she didn't quite grasp the hint.

"You're a hero," she told him firmly. She was close enough he could smell her perfume, something fruity that made his nose itch. She smelled nothing like Tony, like metal and cologne and something completely indefinable—

"Well, that—that depends on the definition, really—" Steve stammered out, inching further away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. Her hand went to his tie and he stood fast enough that she had to step back. She gave a cat-like sort of smile, wrongly thinking she'd gotten him going, so he took her hand and removed it. "Ma'am, I'm—"

"The women of America owe you their thanks," she purred, undeterred, her hands going to his belt instead to tug him along, "Seems they're not here."

"Ma'am, I'm seeing someone," he said, removing her hands a little more firmly this time and taking steps backward as fast as he could, "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the thanking to them. Is the testing area over this way? I'm going to just try my luck with the doors, thank you anywa—"

A wall-rattling explosion came from behind the third door.

Tony.

The door was locked so he forced it open with a good hard slam of his shoulder. The room was filled with smoke and debris, glass all over the floor. People seemed to be alright for the most part, coughing a bit but already standing back up. Steve searched for Tony and quickly found him lying spread-eagle on the floor like he'd been blown back.

"Tony!" Steve crouched down, helped him up. "Are you alright? What in the hell was that?"

"Write that down, it's only science if you write it down!" Tony called to the white coat behind them. He was blinking widely, looking a bit dazed, but didn't seem otherwise hurt. Steve's nerves settled. Tony kept muttering. Steve was fairly certain Tony was speaking to him, though he understood very little of it. "I've never seen a source like that before, not to mention its emissions signature, but the alpha-beta reading was neutral, it seemed harmless enough—"

"Until it exploded?" Steve couldn't help a bit of a laugh.

"Until it exploded," Tony conceded.

* * *

"So let's get this straight." Dum Dum dropped his beer on the table. "We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?"

"Pretty much," Steve answered unapologetically. Tony resisted a laugh.

"Sounds rather…fun, actually," Falsworth admitted.

"That's the spirit." Tony grinned. Beside him, Morita burped.

"Welp, I'm in."

Dernier rattled something off in French. Tony caught bits and pieces, but had no hope of following. Sounded impassioned, though, he'd give the guy that. Jones laughed, rattled off something similar-sounding; the two shook hands. The table stared at them, waiting.

"We're in," Jones offered when he realized they didn't understand.

"Down to you, Dum Dum." Rhodey glanced at him.

"Hell, I'll always fight." Dum Dum raised his beer to Steve. "But you gotta do one thing for me."

"What's that?"

Dum Dum knocked back the rest of his beer, then dropped the empty mug on the table with a wide grin in Tony's direction. "The scrawny rich fellow opens us a tab."

"Wasn't so scrawny when I was saving your ass, was I?" Tony reached across the table to slap Dum Dum's shoulder congenially. "But you've got yourself a deal."

Cheers rose as he stood, went to let the barkeep know. Once he'd gotten the refills, he turned back to find that Steve and Bucky had gone off to another corner of the bar to talk. He waited for a flash of jealousy to present itself; it didn't. Tony let them be, instead rejoining the group with refilled beers and enjoying their renewed exuberance. A little while later, Steve called him over anyway and Tony was proven justified. He didn't need to feel jealous. Steve loved _him_, whether or not they could show so in public; Tony trusted him.

Before he could say a word to Steve, the whole place fell silent. Steve looked like he was stifling a groan as he immediately averted his gaze. Tony turned, already knowing what he'd be seeing.

Yes, Agent Carter could sure pull together when she wanted to.

She walked in wearing some stunning scarlet number, earning stares from just about every man in the bar. Tony could admit, he admired the look. He glanced back at Steve; poor man looked like a fish out of water. Steve had been trying to get Tony to help him figure out what to tell her for days now and Tony had unfortunately been too busy with reverse-engineering the HYDRA device, not to mention fixing the damage the suits had taken, to offer much help. He hadn't really thought he'd needed to, honestly. He'd sort of thought that since they wouldn't be here that long it wouldn't be necessary. Apparently Agent Carter had other plans.

He couldn't blame her; he knew better than anyone the lengths Steve was worth going to.

"Captain."

"Agent Carter." Steve acknowledged her politely as she approached them.

"Ma'am." Bucky nodded. Tony did the same. She walked right past them both, came to a stop directly in front of Steve.

"We have some uniforms for you to try tomorrow morning," she informed him, "At oh eight hundred."

"We'll be there," Steve agreed.

"We?"

"Tony's designed me a uniform too." He had? He had _plans _to… "I doubt anything your boys have come up with will top it, but I'm open to giving them a test run. Tony should be there to see it though, he'd understand the specs better than I would."

At eight in the morning? Tony resisted a groan and nodded dutifully when Agent Carter glanced at him. So much for sleeping in. So much for sleeping at all; he had a uniform to design tonight, apparently.

Agent Carter glanced over at their men. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty."

"You don't like music?" Bucky asked her, leaning in a little so that she might turn his way. For all that Steve was doing his best to make minimal eye contact, Bucky seemed to be all but salivating.

"I do, actually." She didn't take her eyes off Steve. "I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Bucky encouraged.

"The right partner."

"Steve's found his, but I'd be happy to step in," Bucky offered his arm to her. She shot a startled look his way, briefly, before it smoothed into professionalism.

"That true?" She asked Steve. "And here I thought you didn't know a thing about women."

"Still don't," Steve admitted. His gaze flickered to Tony, seemingly unable to help it, but he met Agent Carter's eyes again fast enough Tony doubted she caught the glance. "But with the right person it turns out that doesn't seem to matter so much."

"If it makes you feel better, his taste in women is absolutely atrocious," Bucky told her. Tony shot him a subtle glare.

"So long as his judgment in the field remains steady, it doesn't matter much." Peggy flicked her eyes over Bucky dismissively. She nodded to Steve, no signs of hurt or animosity. "Oh eight hundred, Captain."

"Yes, ma'am." Steve nodded immediately. "We'll be there."

She walked off with a click of her heels and Bucky turned to Steve mournfully.

"I'm invisible. I'm turning into you, it's like a horrible dream."

"Don't take it so hard." Steve clapped Bucky's shoulder, the relief of having finally sorted that out visible in his features. "Maybe my 'atrocious' gal has a friend."

"Maybe Barnes is the one with horrible taste and your gal is stunning." Tony scowled at Bucky. "And wouldn't let any of her equally amazing friends near him."

"Of course my 'gal' is stunning." Steve beamed at him. "I wouldn't trade her for anyone in the world, and she knows that."

"Damn straight." Tony grinned back.


	11. Epilogue

They were given three days leave.

Tony had needed the time in his own workshop to fix some of the more integral system damage done to the suits, since War Machine in particular had taken some heavy hits in their escape. Colonel Phillips had wanted Steve to stay with them in England to conduct further strategy, but Steve had wiggled out of it by reminding Colonel Phillips that he was not in fact his soldier but that he worked for Mr. Stark and needed to stay with his employer. It was a flimsy excuse at best, but it'd gotten him on a plane back home with Tony so he didn't much care.

They'd returned to Tony's place first. Steve hadn't actually considered the fact that his apartment was owned by his former employer until he found everything he owned boxed up and sitting on Tony's lawn, a note stuck to one of the boxes that said in Clint's messy, near illegible scrawl, _You owe us beers for moving all your shit. And one guest room with poolside view. Each._

Steve hadn't liked just being dumped on Tony's doorstep, the thought of how many times Tony had been taken advantage of still nagging at him, but Tony had only laughed, dragged him inside for a kiss, and all but pleaded with him to stay. As Tony had pointed out, with his signing bonus from Marvel's and the checks he'd get from them in the future, he _could _afford his own place. Not a nice one, but he could. Moving in with Tony would be a choice, not a necessary imposition, and Tony had been quite clear that he'd very much like it if Steve chose to do so. Steve had caved and started moving his boxes inside. Tony had helped with what could only be described as glee.

Tony did have actual work to accomplish during these "free" days, but so did he. Marvel's had in fact taken a liking to his work—based on a portfolio of entirely stolen sketches Tony had shown them—and wanted him to start immediately on a piece for the article about their Austria adventure. He didn't have to do the inking or color, just the base sketch for their professionals to fill in, which was good or he had no idea how he would have finished in three days. It was nice, falling back into their usual habits. Their time abroad had been extraordinary and felt more like months than little over a week, so it was strangely soothing to return to this. To watching Tony run around with that manic engineering gleam in his eyes, to doing some rough work on the art Marvel's had commissioned, to sharing a break every so often where he could touch Tony as much as he pleased without the army breathing down their necks…

It was all very, very nice.

It didn't quite hit him that they were actually _living_ together until later that night. Tony had made him dinner before—the mansion had an enormous and surprisingly well-stocked kitchen—but they'd never done so together. It'd always been some form of romantic surprise, not a moment of domesticity. Steve was fairly certain that even after only one night, he already preferred the latter. Neither of them were particularly well-versed cooks, but they put together something simple and filling while Tony enthusiastically made a point of showing him where everything in the kitchen—_their _kitchen, Tony insisted—so he could later use it as he pleased.

They stayed at the table long after they finished their food, sipping wine and conversing amicably. For all the fun they'd had over the past week and the time they'd spent together, they hadn't actually gotten much time _together_. It sounded petty, but it was a meaningful difference; they'd had plenty of proximity working on the same military base and in the same general location, but it wasn't just Tony's proximity Steve wanted. It was contact. There was touch contact and he'd missed that too, but there was also personal contact, that _cosa nostra_ element he only had with Tony, and he'd missed that far more.

They lingered at the table for what must've been hours. They'd pay for it tomorrow when they were both behind on their projects, but Steve wouldn't have traded the time for anything. They should've returned to said projects after dinner, but in the process of doing the dishes there was something of a water fight that ended with soapy kisses and meandering hands and they both realized fairly quickly they wouldn't be going back to the workshop anytime tonight.

"Think you could carry me up those stairs, soldier boy?" Tony murmured, nipping at the shell of his ear.

"With pleasure," Steve rumbled, low and pleased, hoisting him up and attempting to maneuver them out of the kitchen.

He knew the basic layout of the mansion, had been around enough in the past few months to know where things like the bedroom and the kitchen and certainly the workshop were, but the place was still huge. It took a few nudges of Tony's heels to stop him from leading them out into the atrium or the library or wherever else, but they managed to find the bedroom quickly enough.

He hip-checked the door open and laid Tony down on the bed, kissed down his jaw along the line of his throat. Tony swiftly went to work unbuttoning Steve's shirt, yanking it open and tugging it off. Steve tossed it to the side and pulled Tony up to get his off as well. Tony wriggled out of his with admirable speed, then all but pounced on Steve for another kiss, this one passionate and dirty and with enough enthusiasm to send Steve falling onto his back with a laugh. Tony chased after, straddling him and running his hands down Steve's sides. Steve dropped his head back with an appreciative hum as Tony's hands worked their magic, caressing up his chest and flicking over his nipples to send shivers down Steve's spine.

"You're so gorgeous like this, sweetheart, so beautiful," Tony murmured, kissing along his throat.

He sucked a little mark below where Steve's shirt collar would fall, always unable to resist. Steve thumbed at Tony's belt, undid the buckle and slipped it out before unzipping his pants as well. He rolled Tony over, helped him maneuver out of his remaining clothes before doing the same with his own. Tony wasn't quite as much help, distracting him with kisses along every inch of skin he could reach and hands that simply would not get out of the way.

"This would go a lot faster if you'd—ah," Steve's breath hitched as Tony's hand dipped to stroke over the base of his cock, under the briefs he still hadn't managed to get removed yet.

"What's that I should do, darling?" Tony murmured with an amused smile, kissing his shoulder. "Keep touching you? You love when I touch you, don't you? Do you like that, with a little pressure? Or maybe when I thumb over the head like so…"

"Tony," was the only thing Steve could say as he dropped his head back with a low groan, the only possible word on his mind, "_Tony."_

"You like it when I talk dirty, don't you?" Tony smirked, eyes bright as he crawled on top again.

He fit himself between Steve's legs with one hand still between them, stroking teasingly slow over Steve's cock as he mouthed his way up Steve's chest. He gave a short, sharp suck on one of his nipples that made Steve tense and dig his nails into Tony's back before he finally made it to Steve's mouth.

"Love it." Steve parted from him only briefly. "Love you."

He looped both arms around Tony's neck to pull him closer, kiss him with renewed enthusiasm. He canted his hips forward, rutting into Tony's hand eagerly. Tony moaned into his mouth, bit Steve's lip and gave a little twist of his wrist at the same time. Steve arched forward with a helplessly loud noise, his hips jerking up greedily.

He was babbling now, he realized absently, a stream of pleases and Tony's name, but Tony was clearly reveling in it too much to kiss him silent. He'd leaned back to see Steve better, was watching him with such absorbed, intense focus Steve could hardly breathe under the weight of it. He was looking at Steve like he could do so forever, like his every dream was to just lie here and watch Steve get off, happy just to be the cause of that pleasure. His desire was immensely obvious, both in his eyes and the prod of strong arousal Steve could feel against his hip, but there was such love there too. In his eyes, mostly, but also in the lines of his face and the curve of his smile and the tender caress of the hand he had clasped to Steve's cheek.

He thought, decided, and spoke it aloud in the same second.

"I want more," he blurted to Tony.

"I know, baby, I know," Tony didn't move, just stroked Steve's cheek and pumped a little faster, because he didn't get it, not quite.

Steve shook his head, arched up a bit to take Tony's face in both hands, draw him close. It was intimate and intense and he was perfectly, absolutely comfortable with it in a way he never could have imagined all those months ago. "Tony, I want _more."_

It clicked. Tony's mouth went a little slack in surprise before he closed it and swallowed hard, the flash of elated thrill in his eyes impossible to miss. "Yeah?"

Steve brought him down for a kiss. The world could've collapsed in on itself just then and neither of them would've noticed. "Yeah."

"Okay." Tony swallowed again, seeming to be trying to restart his train of thought. "Okay, that's—that's not _okay, _that's wonderful, obviously, I have—in the drawer, there—we can—do you want—do you _know_ what you want—?"

"Honey, breathe." Steve laughed. "Are you going to get like this every time I want to try something new?"

"No," Tony insisted immediately, then admitted, "Probably. I just…you're sure, right? Because I want you to be sure, there's no rush, I'm happy, aren't you happy?"

"I am so far beyond happy there aren't words," Steve assured, kissing him again tenderly, "I trust you, Tony. I trust you and I want to and I am very, very sure."

"Okay." Tony rolled away. Steve resisted the urge to pull him back, sitting up on the bed instead while Tony dug around in the bedside drawer a moment. He returned to Steve's side with a purple bottle and a foil packet. "You didn't strategize this too, did you?"

"Natasha's a woman, Bruce doesn't swing this way, Clint wouldn't be able to stop laughing long enough to be helpful, Rhodey made me promise never, ever to involve him, and Bucky would probably claw his ears off if I brought it up," Steve rattled off.

"So I get to teach you, huh?" Tony tried and _completely _failed not to look pleased by that. He was getting a little wiggly now, his fingers tapping along Steve's thigh in excitement. He didn't seem aware of it.

"Yes, Tony." Steve smiled. "You get to teach me."

"I'm going to be so good to you," Tony swore ardently, cupping Steve's face in one hand and drawing him into a kiss. "I promise. I love you so much, sweetheart, more than I could ever say."

"I know." Steve turned enough to press a kiss to the palm of Tony's hand. "I love you too, Tony."

"Do you know what you want?" His hands dropped to caress over Steve's thighs, but it was an absent sort of touch; the entirety of his focus was on Steve. "How you want it?"

"I'd like to be inside you." Steve was fairly proud that he managed to say so without blushing at all. He decided not to mention how many times he'd practiced. "But if that's—"

Tony kissed him before he could finish offering him an out. Not lightly, either; Tony was kissing him like the only air in the room was in Steve's mouth. He kissed with fervor, pressing forward and sliding his hand up Steve's thigh to fit into his hip, draw him closer.

"No one," Tony told him softly, "Will ever convince me you were not made for me, and I for you."

Steve bumped their noses, kissed him briefly. "Forever the sentimentalist. I take it you're alright with…that?"

"You know, you probably ought to learn to use the words," Tony teased.

"But you're so much better with them than I am."

"You ought to practice, then." Tony leaned a little closer, pressing kisses along the side of his face until he reached his ear, murmured, "Tell me what you want, baby."

"I want you," Steve told him, knowing full well it was a cop-out.

"I'm going to need a little more detail, darling," Tony chuckled.

"I want to—" Steve shivered, train of thought shifting out of reach for a moment as Tony nipped at his ear. "I want to be inside you."

"Yes, but how?"Tony persisted, "How do you want me, love?"

"I want…" The images flickered through his mind, fantasies he'd toyed with when he'd been sleeping alone in that bunker in England. Trying to sleep, anyway, though it'd been near impossible when all he could imagine was how sinking his cock into Tony's hot, tight mouth had felt, and how it might feel to sink into Tony another way. He'd imagined it face to face, that much he could remember. The rest was a bit blurry, too muddled by desire to be bogged down with details. "I want to see you. I want you sprawled on the bed like before, like…"

Steve pushed him back, helped maneuver him the way he wanted. He was a man of action, better with direction and touch than he would ever be with words. He wasn't uncomfortable with anything they were doing by any measure, but talking about it felt strangely difficult. He knew what he wanted to do, knew the actions to take and the words to describe them, but saying it to Tony felt different. All the words rattling around in his head felt crude, inadequate; he didn't want to just _fuck_ Tony, after all. He knew Tony could take any of the phrases rattling around in Steve's head and somehow make them romantically filthy, but Steve was certain if he said them he'd only sound tawdry. Still, Tony was looking up at him now, hopeful and encouraging, so Steve gave it a shot anyway.

"I want to top," he told him, "And I want to do it while looking at you. I want you to—to hook your legs around my waist and dig your fingers into my back as I make love to you. I want to hear you moan my name, feel you clench around me. I want to see the look in your eyes as everything but me falls away."

And to Steve's triumphant amazement, Tony _did _look at him like that, without even being touched. Tony propped himself up on one elbow and clasped a hand to Steve's neck, pulled him into a fervent, biting kiss. It lasted quite a bit longer than the last few, open-mouthed and heavy with tongue.

"You." Tony panted as they separated briefly, Steve getting a hand on the supplies provided. "Are dangerous."

"And you." Steve kissed him, nipped his lower lip before pulling away again. "Are a danger junkie."

"My favorite addiction," Tony told him lovingly, caressing a hand over Steve's arm as Steve moved back a little to begin.

He wiggled out of his underwear eagerly, then tore open the foil packet. He was so busy watching Tony and trying to steady his hands he almost dropped it. He looked away long enough to roll the condom on correctly.

"Tell me if anything hurts," Steve insisted, "Or if there's another way you'd like it."

"I will," Tony promised with an easy, trusting smile.

Steve wasn't going in entirely blind, he understood the concept, but the actual process of preparing Tony would be…fairly trial and error. He was cautious about hurting Tony in some way, but was certain he could read Tony well enough to know if that happened whether or not Tony in fact elected to tell him.

He opened the bottle of lube and squirted some out, coating his fingers and then his cock. Clint's advice from that first night he'd raised his limits in a horrifically misguided attempt to get Tony to leave him be rang in his head: _there's no such thing as too much lube your first time, no glove means no love, and the slower you go the better it'll be. _This wasn't Tony's first time, but Tony had told him the last man he'd seen had been years ago; Steve was fairly sure he wouldn't go wrong applying Clint's 'first time' rules here as well.

"Good lord," Tony interrupted his train of thought, "Steve, you're thick, but you're not _that _thick. Unless you're hiding a train or something down there I think we're fine on lubrication for the moment."

"Oh God," Steve mumbled. He hadn't even touched Tony yet and he was already doing it wrong. "I just—Clint said—"

Tony barked a laugh, but it wasn't unkind. "Any sentence starting with 'Clint said' already worries me. What did he tell you, that you needed the whole bottle?"

"He said there's no such thing as too much lube your first time."

"A good principle," Tony agreed, an amused smile still playing at his features, "Though one you may have taken to with a little too much enthusiasm. What you've got is plenty, honey."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure." Tony laughed again. "Any more and you'll slip right out."

"That can happen?"

"Sometimes." Tony sat up a little, took his free hand and gave a squeeze. "Then you reposition and slide back in, it's not some horrible blunder. Relax, Steve. You're not going to hurt me and you're not going to mess up. Sex isn't a perfect art, it's different for everyone. We'll find our rhythm just fine, I promise."

Steve kissed him in lieu of answering. God how he loved him. He loved him more than even Tony would be able to put to words, loved him for everything he was and at this particular moment for how he always seemed able to put to rest even the deepest of Steve's worries. He didn't just feel comfortable with Tony, he felt invincible, happy and safe and loved beyond compare.

He pulled back long enough to look at Tony, really look at him. Tony didn't have the overt musculature Steve did, but adventuring had treated him well; he was lithe, wiry, and Steve flexed his hands over the muscle of Tony's thighs. He admired how his lover looked like this, splayed open on the sheets, lax and beautiful and gazing up at Steve with such breathless anticipation it made Steve's pulse race.

Steve didn't take his eyes off Tony's face as he slipped the first finger in. He observed the hitch of Tony's breathing, the way his mouth fell open a little, how he tipped his head back against the pillow, and committed it all to memory. He waited for anything that wasn't pleasure to appear in Tony's features, but the only other emotion he found was maybe a hint of surprise. He wondered if Tony had forgotten how this felt. He sort of hoped so, in a way. He'd enjoy being the one to remind him.

Steve was idly aware of his own arousal, the twitch of excitement he felt every time Tony's expression changed, but for the moment it was nothing more than a low buzz in the back of his mind. Tony felt warm around his finger, warm and wet and—well, a little strange, but an interesting sort of strange. New. He twisted his finger a little and Tony said his name as a low, soft whine. Steve swallowed hard, pressed in a little more. Tony did it again, followed quickly by a panted chant of _more more more, _so Steve tentatively obeyed with a second finger. Tony rocked into the movement immediately with a groan of approval.

"Not too fast?" He asked to be sure, but Tony just gripped his arm tightly.

"No, god, no, you're fine, you're wonderful, keep doing that," Tony assured immediately, followed by a choked off moan of, "Oh, definitely that."

"Keep talking," Steve encouraged, bending forward to kiss him. The angling of it was a little awkward with his hand still between them, but it worked well enough. "I want to hear you, hear how much you're enjoying yourself."

"You feel amazing," Tony blurted almost before Steve finished speaking, "Of course I'm enjoying myself, god, you have no idea what you do to me, not at all, you think you do but you don't and I love it, I love you, I love your fucking fantastic fingers and I'm going to love your thick cock inside me, filling me up and making me yours—"

Steve gave a guttural groan, Tony's words quickly tapping out what little patience he was still clinging to. He curled a third finger in and Tony moaned his name so loudly Steve briefly worried about the neighbors. Then he remembered they weren't in his itty bitty apartment anymore and experienced his first moment of selfish gratefulness for Tony's wealth; they had no neighbors, which meant they could do this as loudly and as often as they pleased. Tony could scream his name and no one would ever know. A shiver ran through him just at the thought. Tony grasped his free arm, still chattering away as he rocked up onto Steve's fingers impatiently.

"I'm ready, baby," he pleaded, "That's plenty, just need you, need you so badly, fuck me, plea—"

"No," Steve said. Alarmed confusion flickered over Tony's face, then he figured it out and beamed up at Steve.

"Now who's getting sentimental?" Tony hooked an arm around his neck, pulling him in for a fierce kiss. "C'mon then, sweetheart. Make love to me."

Steve kissed him as he pulled his fingers out, through the shuddering sort of gasp Tony gave at the motion. He had to move away a little to position himself—doing it blindly was harder than he'd thought it'd be—then he was sliding in. He went slow, but God, if it didn't near kill him to. Tony felt amazing around him, a blissful sort of pressure leagues away from his own hand or Tony's mouth. He tried to stay still, to not thrust before Tony was ready, but then Tony was hooking his legs around Steve's waist and digging his nails into his back like Steve had asked him for and he couldn't remember why he was supposed to be holding back at all. He forgot himself completely as Tony gasped and moaned and pleaded, a litany of _more _and _harder _and _faster, god, Steve, faster, please._

He wasn't the best at syncing his movements with Tony's and there were more than a few halted thrusts, a readjustment here and there when he didn't quite hit the right angle, but it was like Tony had said; they found their rhythm just fine. Even the faltering, fumbling movements felt fantastic, anyway, all of it shrouded in a haze of pleasure that left Steve feeling dizzy and unbalanced and frankly a little high. He didn't last as long as he'd have liked—didn't last very long at all, honestly—though he certainly couldn't have imagined holding on any longer than he did under the circumstances.

He dropped to bury his face in Tony's shoulder and Tony dug his heels in harder, pulled him closer. It was only after he lifted his head that he realized he'd bitten him—not to mention left a hell of a mark—but Tony only gave a choked gasp and pushed him up to get a hand around his cock and give a few rough, aborted strokes before he came too, so Steve was going to put 'biting' in the yes column. He stroked Tony's hair back with his free hand as it washed over him, watched as Tony's eyes glazed over a little and his mouth dropped open and he arched forward, committing it all to memory and hopefully later to paper. When Tony came back to himself he looked up at Steve shakily with such blissful adoration it bordered on worshipful; if Steve could only remember one moment of his life, he'd want it to be this.

Exhaustion hit him less like a wave and more like a sucker punch. He immediately felt boneless, perfectly content and ready to drop into sleep right then and there. He did drop, a little, his arms unwilling to hold him up much longer. The come on Tony's chest got on his when they pressed together, at which point he realized that drifting right off to sleep would unfortunately not be happening. One of them made a pitiful, whining sort of sound. It was possible it might've been him.

"It'll only take a minute." Tony gave a winded sort of laugh.

"A minute of moving," Steve complained, "I don't think I can move. Can you move?"

"I'm…" Tony was still panting a bit. "Getting there. Only of us is a superhuman, you know."

Steve made another noise, less whining and more groaning, before rolling off of Tony reluctantly. He stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, peeling the condom off and tossing it in the trash bin before grabbing a towel to get damp. He essentially tumbled back into bed, crawling half on Tony lazily and giving a few swipes of the towel to clean the come off of them before tossing it on the floor with their clothes.

"D'you like it?" Steve asked.

He was positive he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Tony say it. He pressed kisses along Tony's temple as he pulled him in, their legs tangling together as Tony rolled onto his side to face Steve. He didn't answer at first, just smiled, fond amusement making it clear he knew full well Steve just wanted a little ego stroking. Thankfully, he seemed happy to oblige. He raised a hand to caress along the side of Steve's face before wrapping around to clasp the back of his neck, curling the tips of his fingers in the strands of hair there.

"You were very good, sweetheart, if the part where I came harder than I have in years was unclear." His expression softened. "Was your first everything you'd hoped for?"

"More." Steve nestled closer until they were nose to nose. It only took a slight tip of his head to give Tony a kiss. "So much more."

"Good." Tony smiled, turning over in Steve's arms the way they usually slept.

"Love you," Steve murmured, burying his face in Tony's hair.

Even fresh out of the shower the faint scent of metal clung to Tony like a second skin, but at the moment that was mixed with sweat and sex; if Steve wasn't so utterly exhausted, it'd be one of the most arousing things he'd ever smelled. As it was, it just gave him a faint buzz in the back of his mind. Between that and the post-coital haze, Steve felt about as close as he'd ever be to tipsy.

"Love you too," Tony murmured back, finding Steve's hand and linking their fingers.

Tired though he was, Steve felt a deep, instinctive need to savor this moment. He knew there would be more, many more if he had any say in it at all, but there was something special about this first one. There was a new facet of intimacy in the mutual, shared afterglow, one Steve wanted to bask in for as long as he could. He curled around Tony a little more, arms and legs tangled together between the blankets as he occasionally pressed little kisses to Tony's hair. He fell asleep listening to the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Tony's breathing, his last sleepy, idly humorous thought that becoming stripper was clearly the best choice he'd ever made.


End file.
